Peaceable Kingdom

by AShadowOfCygnus

Rating: teen
Tags: Main 6, Princess Luna, Drama, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Other, Tragedy, Princess Celestia, Slice of Life
Length: 26074

A time without war, a time without fear—until it isn't.

A time without war, a time without fear—until it isn’t.

A story for our time.

Preread through the effort and kind attention of Admiral Biscuit, Luna Farrowe, Neighrator Pony, Thornquill, and the ever-loving Dark River.

Featured, 31 August 2018.
Reviewed by Seattle's Angels, 19 May 2020.

No audiobook readings, please.

Published 2018-08-31 00:30:02 UTC
Last updated 2018-08-31 00:30:02 UTC

The Night

By nightfall, the word was on every pair of lips. From the streets of the city to the halls of the palace, and as far as the airwaves would carry, the news was spreading across Equestria—a bomb. A bombing, in Canterlot. Twenty-one dead in the heart of the heartland.

Celestia had expected more anger. Hooves and horns and swords crossed, demanding answers, demanding reprisal—the who, the how, the why of it. But she had not had to tell a single page, a single noble that those were her questions as well, that the Guard were investigating and answers would make themselves known in due time. Blueblood—Blueblood!—had asked her leave to go down into the city and lend a hoof where able.

Was it strange that after so many millennia, so many years spent watching her people grow—nurturing them in that growth!—that solidarity should still seem so alien to her? Was it still so very hard for her to believe that tragedy could do more now to bring them together in their anguish?

And yet, the warring impulse remained: were it truly so, would we be here tonight to watch them do it?

This does not happen in my kingdom.

She opened her eyes, and was once again on the terrace adjoining her sister’s observatory-tower, Luna beside her, gazing out over the southern Wards—at St Hestia’s, at the garden pavilion adjoining, at the Railyard. There, in the dim half-light of evening, as ponies in dusty overalls went about lighting the gas-lamps on every street corner, a brighter light was to be found there. A hundred-hundred candles, a hundred-hundred horn-tips, bathing the cordon in softly-shifting spectra of orange and blue-white light.

A kilometre’s separation—up, away—was not enough to mask the snatches of song the wind carried to their ears.

Luna shifted a little. ‘Awaited they the night for this?’

‘Many are just coming off work.’

‘Ah.’

They stood there in silence for a while longer, watching lamps come on across the city—watching the line of light stretch further and further back from the Railyard cordon.

‘You left Twilight with the rest of the Elements, yes?’

‘Verily. And left instruction clear that we be informed the moment she be like to wake.’

‘I would feel her. I’ve been listening since . . .’

‘I know, Tia.’

Silence again. Then:

‘Solidarity.’

‘What of it?’

‘Were you not pondering it but a moment ago?’

‘I was.’

‘You read the Guards’ final report, then?’

‘Why ask the question when you already know the answer?’

‘Courtesy. Love. Refusal to let dark thoughts lie untended—all things we promised in ages past.’ Luna’s shoulder pressed lightly against hers. ‘And mayhap an end to endless circling.’

Celestia smiled a little; it was an old refrain. ‘Yours or mine?’

‘Peradventure both; mayhap neither.’

Celestia’s smile widened—faltered, a little, as she guided the sun through its final eventide moments—but remained. ‘You always know just what to say.’

‘We are your sister, after all.’ Luna’s eyes were closed, guiding the moon onto the perfect curve of its nightly path, but Celestia could see the barest hint of a smile playing on her lips, too.

‘They have a saying, you know; they came up with it while you were away.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. The moon also rises. Mind, the particulars may have changed in the last century; I don’t keep track as well as I should.’

‘’Tis in parallel to the sun, then? Their art hath always reflected the duality.’

‘Yes, but I think the implication was more that, while there will always be darkness, it never comes without a light to guide them through it.’

‘More the flatterers they. But, verily, here we are.’

‘Here we are. The greatest loss of life on Equestrian soil in a hundred years, and the moon still rises.’

Luna opened her eyes, and regarded the moon quietly as it began its steady, unimpeded ascent. ‘And yet, here we are. Solidarity.’

Silence.

‘The report, then?’

‘Yes.’

‘. . . your thoughts?’

‘Troubled, but you knew that. That it was so well-distilled speaks to something organised, or at least premeditated. Equestria still has its enemies, though I spent a thousand years lessening their potential to harm. Save possibly Crystal—sorry, Chrysalis’—swarm, any of them would have the technology.’

‘Yet, ‘twere neither Griffon nor Diamond Dog within fifty miles of Ponyville this morning, should the alarum-wards be held in account.’

‘. . . nor on the train at any point on its route, as I’m sure you were able to confirm when you walked the scene.’

‘Nay, naught but the resonances of ponies, stem to stern.’ A pause. Then: ‘Pray, how long?’

‘Barring the odd crime of passion? Centuries. And there hasn’t been a killing in sixty years, let alone a score.’

‘And nary a word as to motive?’

‘No suicide note, no manifesto. Nothing. Violence for violence’s sake, if that.’

‘Be it wise to disregard the swarm, then? We would fain hazard ten-score of theirs fell the night of the Wedding.’

‘She lacks the subtlety to pull off something at this scale. With figures like that, it would have been ten bombs, or none.’

‘Then, mayhap . . . ?’ Luna nodded in the direction of the castle gardens, far below. Celestia followed her gaze to a single, irregular outline there—positioned so as to be immediately distinguishable from the rest of the statuary at this angle. A bit of cloud scudded across the moon as she looked, and her heart missed a beat, but—no.

No, for all that he looked ready to leap out and dance for them in the pale moonlight, his face told the real story—the manifest rictus of frustration, fear, pain. He wouldn’t be caught dead in that colour, if he had his way.

‘It’s not his style anyway,’ she said, half to herself.

But even as she said the words, even as Luna nodded, she considered that. It was not his style, no; but then, whose was it? Not the Griffons’, and not the Minotaurs’; not the Diamond Dogs’ or the Changelings’; a Dragon wouldn’t bother, and neither would the odd Everfree megabeast. For too many, there was too much honour at stake, else too much goodwill to be lost.

Nothing about it added up; nothing about it made any kind of sense. No culprit, no motive, no reason—no parallel, no analogue, no reference point. Had the rules of the game changed? Had it been somewhere, somehow agreed, this is how things shall be? If so, she had not been informed. She had looked up from the table to find the pieces scattered, the board up-ended, but no-one else even an inch from their seats.

But was that even fair? One bomb, one cold-blooded murder in two-hundred years—what else could it be?—was it really a paradigm shift unto itself? It felt like it, there, under the cold gaze of the stars. A thousand years of careful tending, yet the garden was never free of weeds.

A weed?

The question rolled back and forth along her tongue, but she could not bring herself to voice it. Instead, she matched the gaze of the stars, and silently shook her head.

Beside her, Luna broke the lengthening silence—and once again saved her the trouble of speech. ‘Verily, indeed. Here we are, sister. The moon also riseth, yes . . . but what doth it rise on?’

Celestia shook her head, mutely.

This does not happen in my kingdom.

Does it?

‘Fast, you’ve been here since—’

‘I know, Weather. You go on home. And take tomorrow off, alright? Crown’s already announced a national day of mourning, there’s . . . nothing we could really do, here.’

‘Alright, but . . . you get home safe too, mister. And if you’re still here when I switch on the radio back home . . .’

‘Yes ma’am. Weather Eye, everyone: our Pegasus correspondent for lifestyle, traffic, and—you guessed it, everyone’s favourite news item—the latest styles sweeping the streets. We’ve all put in a long day, but hers was the longest—three before dawn, she gets in here. Criminy.

‘Folks . . . there was one last thing I want to say before . . . before I switch off for the day and go home—to my wife, who works at the bank about a mile up the road from St Hestia’s, and to my two beautiful foals. We—we’ve got a lot, up here in Canterlot. And I—I’m not always sure we’re as thankful for it as we should be. Up here on the Mount, we don’t get a lot of—a lot of Dragons, or Parasprites, or the kind of craziness that comes with living next to the Everfree, like the good folks down in Ponyville.

‘But—consider, in the past few moons, we had the Green Wedding, and then—today, what some ponies are calling the Railyard Bombing, others the Wards massacre . . . I’m not saying there’s some kind of . . . of pattern there or something, because I don’t think there is, but . . .

‘But I want to you to consider, w-whether you lost someone today—and our hearts—the hearts of all of Equestria go out to you if you did—if you’re at the vigil down at the gates right—right now, or if you’re at home, wherever that may be across the wide Equestrian world . . . I want you to consider a-all the good things you’ve got in your life, a-and . . . and I want you to be thankful for them. Grab your spouse, your marefriend or coltfriend, your foals, your parents, your best friend—anyone you really care about.

‘You grab them, and you give them the biggest minotaur-hug you can. Because if they’re there, then no matter how much we’ve lost, we still—still have a lot to be grateful for.

‘Goodnight, Canterlot. Goodnight, Ponyville. Goodnight to . . . a-anyone and everyone who may be listening, wherever and whenever you might be. This is Fast Talker for Canterlot Radio One, and I can promise you sure as the sun rises, we’ll be back on the day after tomorrow with your weather, traffic, and news needs.

Signing off for now; goodnight.’

Her head swam, adrift in a sea of clouds. She was nearer, and further, and nearer to herself again, and yet she still found herself a-swimming. Faint outlines became clear—long parallels, sharp perpendiculars, abstract white geometries on the ceiling (ceiling? where had the skies gone?) opposite. The befuddlement of skies carried her, turning, twisting, darkening, until abstract shapes were abstract no longer—a carriage, a cabin, seats opposite. And eyes—eyes the colour of sapphire, of still waters, regarding her with concern.

Darling, whatever is the matter? You look like you’ve just seen a gh—

Twilight’s eyes snapped open, and the bed lurched as she heaved and twisted. She did not know where she was, but it wasn’t where she had been, and it was wrong, and everything was wrong and she needed to go, and her leg wasn’t moving for some reason, and—

She froze, panting with exertion, tangled in sheets, staring wide-eyed at the unfamiliar door swinging open into the unfamiliar room.

Applejack stood there, with the nurse right beside. They were pale under the dull hospital lights (a hospital; that would explain the ceiling—bed, sheets. Leg?), but paled further still on seeing her awake. Applejack seemed almost rigid with shock, but the nurse—an unfamiliar Earth Pony mare with a violently green mane—recovered almost at once, and made a great show of bustling in, business as usual. A few readings taken, a clipboard grabbed from the end of the bed, a few diagnostic glances taken, and she was gone.

And that just left Applejack—face lined, eyes hollow, still somehow managing to look confused.

Twilight, not really knowing what to say, still compromisingly tangled in sheets, just kind of . . . waved. A sad little wave, one-hoofed, from where she lay.

And the absurdity of it was too much for either of them, and they laughed. They laughed. Hollow and awkward as it was, it was laughter, and it was enough.

Applejack shut the door gently behind her and crossed to the bed, giving Twilight a look that told her in no uncertain terms that if she hadn’t been bedridden, she would have been subjected to the biggest running tackle-hug in the history of Equestria.

Instead, she settled for a slightly-choked, ‘Well hey, you.’

‘Hey yourself,’ Twilight croaked, a little surprised at her own hoarseness. She pulled herself upright, wincing a little as inadvertently flexed the leg in the cast, and held out her forelegs. Applejack eyed her, as though afraid she might collapse under her own weight, but Twilight shook her head. ‘I’m okay. Come here.’

Applejack needed no further prompting. Awkwardly, carefully, tightly, they hugged—Applejack doing her best to balance on two hind-legs, Twilight trying very hard not to move hers. It was odd, and silly, and uncomfortable, and yet they found that all they could do was squeeze harder, and hold tighter.

Applejack broke away first—held her at hooves’ length, took her in. Took in, Twilight imagined, the burns, the cuts, the bruises; the eyes, rimmed with dark circles and the shadows of tears; the trembling half-smile. She wondered if it was anything like Applejack’s—taut, tired, hopeful, amazed. It was the kind of look that prefaced passionate speech-giving—or else a flood of tears.

But Applejack did none of those things. She just stood there, fidgeting a little. The brim of her hat came down over her eyes, then popped back up again, the lid of some self-conscious jack-in-the-box trying to hide her wet and black-circled eyes. She started toward the bedside table, stopped, fumbled with the glass, stopped. Filled it—held it out.

‘Thank you.’ Twilight took proffered glass gratefully and downing it in a single go. In her newly-upright position, she could get a much better look at the room than she had before—single-occupancy, no curtain, decently-modern med-tech, and a high window, showing nothing but dark face of the building opposite.

‘What time is it?’ she asked Applejack, hoofing back the glass. AJ refilled it slowly and set it on the table, squinting out the window.

‘Ehh, lil’ after moonrise? You were out fer a good twelve hours, sugarcube.’

‘This doesn’t look like Ponyville General.’

‘Nah, some lil’ number called St Hestia’s, a little ways up from the Railyard—budge up yer leg there, I’m sittin’ with ya—we came up from Ponyville as soon as we could.’

‘We? The girls?’

‘’Course, silly-filly, who were ya thinkin’?’

She sounded better, Twilight noticed—the words coming easier, the cobwebs beaten away. Warming—like a crystal focus gathering energy, or an eng—

Her stomach turned over, and she blinked, hard.

Applejack seemed not to have noticed. ‘Honestly, we’d been here since mid-mornin’—reckoned we’d be here well overnight, too, given how restful you were sleepin’ an’ all. So Dashie went to go grab us some dinner off the carts they got set up out on the pavilion, took Spike with her. Lil’ guy didn’t want leave ya, but we talked him into some food. And Fluttershy said she had t’get home an’ feed the varmints their supper, ‘cuz a’course she did.’

She frowned a little. ‘And then there’s Pinkie. Zipped off without a second glance ‘bout an hour ago, and we haven’t seen her since. Couldn’t say when she might get it in her head to come back, only that she will.’

Twilight waited for her to continue. Applejack shifted a little at the foot of the bed, getting her hooves tucked under her, but said nothing else. Her eyes seemed riveted to the cast on Twilight’s leg—though whether in an attempt to avoid it, or simply for the solid fact of it, Twilight couldn’t be sure.

She shifted a little, under the covers, and Applejack started, locked eyes with her for the briefest of moments, and just as quickly looked away again.

‘A-and, err, let’s see, here—yer parents came by while you was asleep, ‘fore we left. Came in, watched over y’all fer a bit. Yer ma ended up fightin’ with the nurses, sayin’ they wanted to take you home. And the nurse just looked at her and said she should feel—f-feel . . .’ She broke off, and lifted her eyes to the ceiling, shaking her head slightly.

‘Damn it,’ she said quietly, half to herself. ‘Ah can’t . . . how am I s’posed to . . . ?’

But Twilight was only half-listening. On an impulse, she had pulled back the curtain dividing the little room, and her eyes swept distractedly over the deserted landscape of chairs, tables, standing lamps. She turned back to Applejack, heart in her throat.

‘A-Applejack, where’s—?’

Applejack’s head whipped around. Her eyes were wide, her mouth caught half-open—and what little colour there had been in her face drained silently away. They sat there, caught in that moment, Twilight’s heart pounding in her chest, her throat, her ears, knowing, knowing, but hoping—

And then Applejack’s gaze fell, and the slight tremble in her lips was all the confirmation Twilight needed.

‘Oh.’

‘Oh?’ echoed Applejack, faintly. Her eyes remained unblinkingly locked on the cast, now.

‘Oh.’ She felt the gorge rise again in her chest but she shoved it down, opting instead to let herself sink back into the mound of pillows. ‘Oh.’

Applejack squeezed her eyes shut, and opened them again. ‘Ah’m sorry, Twi.’

Twilight said nothing, but hot tears were already coursing their way down her cheeks. Something unreasoned, half-conscious, burned through her like bile—how could she have been so stupid, how could she not have seen it in Applejack’s face the moment she came in? She had asked for water before she asked about her friend. Heartless. Thoughtless. Stupid.

In that moment, everything about her was Wrong; everything about her was a mistake, and a sin, and a grievance. She hated it, and she hated herself for being weak, and in that moment she could do nothing but lie there and sob. She felt a tentative hoof near the fetlock of her good hind-leg—a gentle, soothing motion. She wanted to scream that she didn’t deserve it, but at the same time she needed it, and the realisation only made her cry harder.

How could she have been so stupid?

How dare she be there, when Rarit—

When Rar—

Sightless fog washed over her—grey, heavy, leaden, crushing. She crumpled beneath it, sobbing. Applejack was a pin-prick, now, a tiny bud of orange in a swelling field of grey. She was slipping again, slipping into the sea, and her chest hurt and she didn’t know why and everything was growing dark again and she hated it and she hated herself for slipping but she didn’t want to stay she couldn’t because that would mean thinking about her again and knowing she was gone and she couldn’t she couldn’t she didn’t deserve to be there to think about it if she couldn’t take it back make it better take her place instead and it was all too much.

Then darkness—complete and all-consuming—sliced through the whirl of images, and she was gone again, adrift and aloft and far away in blackness and sorrow and guilt.

How long she slept, if sleep it was, she did not know. Periodically the darkness would lift for a moment—punctuated by the distant outlines of sounds—the hazy echo of colours and familiar shapes, crowding and melting together like summer sherbet. And then she would sink again, and again the dark curtain would fall.

Time and again, like the tide, she ebbed and flowed; time and again she washed up and was dragged away, and she hadn’t the strength to resist. But eventually the dark surf receded, the curtain lifted, and she lay again in a dark room. She lay there, staring at the dark ceiling, feeling the grimy tracks of tears in the fur of her cheeks, cold and empty and alone.

Not alone?

She lifted her head slightly. The lights had been turned out, but the moon was high out the little picture window, and bathed the room in a silky white cast—a shine like snow. Applejack was where she had been before—legs tucked under her, at the foot of the bed, just shy of Twilight’s bound-up leg. Her head was down, now, her breathing slow and regular. Rainbow Dash, it seemed, had pulled up a chair beside her, and was sprawled uncomfortably along it—legs splayed, head cocked, mouth open, snoring. In the corner, Fluttershy and Pinkie Pie took up opposite ends of the short couch beside the table—Fluttershy, tucked up like Applejack; Pinkie flat and stiff as a board.

She made to move a little, to adjust her position around the cast, but stopped when she felt pressure on her right side. Spike had wedged himself into the crook of her foreleg, a tight, tiny ball of scales and frills, pressed up against her as though ready to burrow into her side and never come out again. And he, too, was asleep, so she settled back again, and let her head hit the pillow.

She lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the moment when it was all supposed to make her feel better.

It didn’t come.

She lifted her head again—and again, and again—and scanned the room, each time looking for the empty chair. Each time she looked, each time she found every seat taken, the sick feeling in her stomach grew a little more pronounced.

Of course it was her fault. Of course she was to blame. She hadn’t done anything to stop it. She hadn’t even known. She’d been stupid and thoughtless and wrong, and that was that. And now her friend was dead.

She waited to cry, but her eyes were dry. She tried to swallow, but the lump in her throat prevented her. She let out a ragged breath as the last images flashed before her eyes again—blue eyes, wide with friendly concern, a gasp, a shove, then heat and pressure and light and darkness. And . . .

Darling?

She shuddered, violently—felt Spike push himself harder into her side in response. And, too, seemed to stir movement in the hall outside. A soft light pooled under the door, growing steadily in intensity as the latch clicked, and Twilight swore to herself that if she stepped through that door, she would scream.

But it was another figure, taller, shining white—whiter than the room itself. Warmth washed over her like a wave—a cresting wave, of fresh sea-foam. She closed her eyes, and basked in the familiar warmness. And then she heard her name. Not angry, not frustrated, not even afraid. Just the thing itself, with love, and motherly warmth. A familiar voice, within and without, soothing and close and firm.

And she opened her eyes.

Celestia was there, Luna beside her, close enough to whisper, and the dry tears suddenly threatened to leave her again. She was here, she was close, and everything was going to be alright. Her warm smile, the soft, motherly look in her tired eyes, the feeling of gentle sunlight on her cool fur—Twilight felt herself sigh, and relax, and almost close her eyes again, a foal nestled against her side again, but she couldn’t, because it was suddenly very important, and she had been derelict in her duty, and she had to be strong, she had to tell her—

‘Twilight,’ Celestia said softly. She settled herself gently by the side of the bed, never straying far, always near, her eyes never leaving Twilight’s. There was an odd expression on her face, one Twilight couldn’t quite place—almost fondness, almost maternal warmth, but tinged with an overpowering sadness, and regret.

It was the same expression Luna wore, standing as she did at the foot of the bed, surveying the sleepers arrayed about the room—the same expression she wore as she lit her horn, and every one of them visibly relaxed; Pinkie even rolled over, with a little, contented sigh.

It was the same expression Twilight was sure she was wearing, as she snuggled Spike closer to her chest, and matched gazes with her mentor of many years.

‘You know why we’re here?’ Celestia asked, gently.

Twilight nodded.

‘And you know what we need to ask of you?’

She nodded again.

‘And you feel up to telling us whatever you can?’

Nod.

Celestia inclined her head. ‘Anything you can tell us would be appreciated. Don’t worry about working around what we already know—we just want to hear what you saw. We can stop at any time, and we can come back later, if you need us to. Are you ready?’

Twilight found her voice, at last—smaller, hoarser, than when it had just been Applejack.

‘W-where would you want me to start? I don’t remember seeing anything out-of-place on the platform.’

‘Whither thou believest the tale beginneth,’ said Luna, louder but no less gentle. ‘We know ‘tis no easy task we set thee.’

And Twilight took a deep breath, and Twilight told them, voice growing stronger, her words more confident with each syllable that fell from her lips. She told them about how she and Rarity had boarded the train—second carriage from the front, first row. She told them about how they had talked and laughed, and conspiratorially shared all the little things they were going to do when they got there. And she found herself telling them about what those plans had been—how she was going to take her old room-mate out for a cup of coffee and catch up after nearly three years apart; how Rarity had planned to buy some fabulous Saddle Arabian silks for a new dress Cheerilee had saved up a year’s worth of bits for.

And she told them more than that—what she’d thought about Rarity, how she’d done her hair that morning, the look in her eyes as she walked Twilight through the steps the dress would take from cloth to dress-form to finished work: the spark, the grin, the muted bounciness of artistic fulfilment.

And then they started pulling into the station, and Twilight’s telling slowed.

‘We . . . we were just getting ready to up and start making our way to the doors, and then . . . there was . . .’ She trailed off.

Darling, whatever is the matter?

‘Twilight?’

She shook her head, violently. ‘I’m sorry. There was a . . . a mare. Grey coat, black mane. Thin, uh, and bright green eyes. No horn. I never saw if she had wings. She was wearing a big heavy parka—really strange for the middle of summer, obviously. Rarity and I talked about it when she got on board. She . . . she was right near the middle of the carriage, and she kind of got to her hooves real quickly, and threw the parka off, and there was something under it. And I kind of gasped, because my seat was facing hers, but Rarity was across from me the whole time, and she couldn’t see and she never saw it coming and— A-and—’

‘Twilight?’

You look like you’ve just seen a gh—

‘And I couldn’t tell what it was I could never tell what it was but it was big and it was bulky and had lots of compartments all close together and she had something she fitted into her mouth and she never said anything and it was over so quick and she just bit down on it and—’

She could feel herself breathing, hard—as though she’d just run a marathon. Her heart was pounding. How had she gone from confidence so quickly? Part of her screamed to say the words that were burning in her throat; part of her clung desperately to her chest and bade her hold her tongue. How long had she been talking? How loud had she—

And then the soft cradle of wings surrounded her, and for the briefest of moments she was safe again. Everything seemed to slow, and fall away—her breathing, her hitched shoulders, the subtle pain beginning to make itself known again in her leg—all of it disappearing in the soothing warmth. She was a foal again, being cradled close and gently reassured; the words a language she desperately wanted to understand.

And then that, too, fell away, and she was back. A little sick, a little hitch in her chest, but somehow so very much lighter. She looked around at Luna, at her friends—and something about them seemed almost lighter. She turned back to Celestia, almost longingly, but the look in her eyes told Twilight everything she needed to know. There was a steel there now there had not been before, and a kind of resignation.

But she turned to Twilight, and all Twilight could feel was warmth. ‘Thank you, Twilight,’ she heard—a whisper, directly in her ear. ‘Thank you for telling us. Thank you for being strong.’

And the warmth and the closeness increased, draped over her like a warm blanket, and at last, Twilight was asleep.

Ponyville Express—Editorials
by Plum Partridge

I’m sitting here at my desk, and I just don’t know how to put any of this in words.

Y’all have heard what happened up in Canterlot this morning. And y’all know that we’re a daily, so we gots to write these things up as they happen. But I just don’t know what I can say about something like this.

Here in Ponyville, we got our troubles. Three years, we’ve had Nightmare Moon, and Discord, and big old Star-Bears running amok through town. My cousin gets Timber-Wolves on the farm, there’s always some Dragon lurking just over the horizon, and Celestia only knows what might come gallivanting out of the Everfree any given night.

We ain’t no strangers to danger or kerfuffle, is what I’m saying. Y’all know it, I know it. Celestia knows it, way up Mount Canter. But I know that when I went out this morning to pick up some roses from the gals in town, and I looked up and I saw that smoke plume, my heart just stopped. I couldn’t tell you why, or how I knew in my good Earth pony hooves that something was wrong, something different, but I did.

Caramel. Fizzle Plume. Rarity. Type Setter.

Four ponies.

Four ponies, and those are just the ones from Ponyville. And I’m sitting here, reading over those names, thinking about the ponies I knew, and I just don’t know what to say. I knew these ponies. I chatted with them in the market, waved to them in the street. I drank in the same bar as Fizzle, bought my wedding dress from Rarity, worked with Type Setter for I don’t know how many years. And all of them got swept away in just one second. How am I supposed to handle that? How are any of us?

I can’t do them or their lives justice in just one page, and I’m not gonna try. Scribble Dibble, our new editor, said she’d handle the obituaries. Read them, when you get a chance—if I know Scribble, she’ll do right by them. Maybe I’ll put in a few words, a few of the best memories, in the column this week—maybe give you all a chance to share your stories. And to the families, the spouses, the partners, the friends—y’all have our love and good wishes, and all the help we’ve got to give.

That’s what Ponyville does. We got our disasters, we got our troubles. We don’t usually walk away from them with these big of holes in our hearts, but when we see a pony get hurt by them, we always stop to help. I’ve lived here all my life, and I ain’t never seen different.

And no matter who cost us near thirty ponies this morning, or what, that’s who we gotta still be. Help your neighbour, help your friend. Help anypony who’s hurting today, tomorrow, next week. And help yourselves, too. There ain’t never a time to pull a wagon with a broken wheel. Take the time to fix that wheel and come back strong when it’s ready. The Sun, the Moon will still be there in the morning.

The last tendrils of warmth were long gone when Twilight awoke in the early hours of the morning. She remembered the blanket of comfort and gentle feeling, remembered being lulled into a soft and untroubled sleep, and part of her was conscious enough—clever enough—to realise that had probably been deliberate. Asleep, she knew, she would not dream. Asleep, she could not relive the conversation, the train ride, the . . . explosion. Asleep, she could rest.

Unfortunately, asleep or no, she was still bound by physiological laws, and the pain response was one her subconscious mind was sadly well-acquainted with. The dull pain of whatever she had tweaked under the cast lingered, almost resentful, and—now that there was no blanket of warmth to distract her—the rest of her was inclined to feel the same way. She resented her leg, she resented her incredibly self-aware mind (Ah, see, Princess Celestia knew you would have trouble sleeping without outside help, so she helped you fall asleep; ergo, without her, you will now not fall asleep!), she resented that her friends were no longer in the room to resent, she resented the fact that she was here at all, she resented the big pile of train ride-explosion-conversation that she was resentful she couldn’t even bring herself to get into yet, and she very definitely resented that part of her brain that was trying to get her to get into it.

It was a more wakeful guilt from before—an angrier one. She wanted to lash out, to find or summon or manifest some acceptable target for her frustration, but there wasn’t so much as a ‘call nurse’ button for her to throw something at.

So she just . . . lay there. Sighing intermittently, and trying very hard not to close her eyes and see Rarity’s face again—see those last confused seconds play out again and again in perfect play-by-play.

Whatever is the matter?

Stop.

You look like you’ve seen a gh—

Stop it.

Darling?

‘I said stop!’

She was sitting up now, head in hooves. Something—maybe a pillow, maybe a water glass—had bounced heavily off the wall opposite, and now there were hoofsteps in the hall. She didn’t even have the strength feign an apology as the door cracked open—she was tired, she was angry, she was miserable, and she just wanted to go back to sleep and make it all go away.

‘Twilight?’

But it was only Applejack. She peeked through the crack in the door, and opened it a little wider when she saw Twilight sitting up in the bed. ‘You . . . you okay?’

Twilight let her hooves fall. ‘No. No, I’m not.’

‘What’d she say?’

Applejack and Rainbow Dash, then.

‘I can’t sleep,’ she said, loud enough for the both of them to hear. ‘I wouldn’t mind the company.’

They edged in, quietly, and Dash flicked on the light with a wingtip. Twilight blinked stupidly for a minute, waiting for her eyes to adjust, and once she had done so, she found the pair of them in chairs by her bedside.

‘Hey, dude,’ Rainbow Dash said, wan smile not carrying to her drooping eyes. ‘If it’s any consolation, I don’t feel like I slept a wink.’

‘Ah did,’ said Applejack, almost apologetically. ‘Woke up for a bit when we got . . . moved outta the room? But fell right back asleep after that. The other three, too.’

Rainbow smirked. ‘Well, which is it—three, or two?’

‘Oh, ain’t you the big joker all of a sudden.’

They chuckled, then lapsed back into silence. Rainbow shifted her wings a little, trying to get comfortable—splayed across her chair as she was, it couldn’t have been easy. Applejack kept darting looks at Twilight—first her face, then her leg, then away again.

And Twilight . . . Twilight found she just didn’t have much to say. All of her anger seemed to have evaporated the moment the girls had come in, to be replaced with . . . what? More than an empty feeling, but less than either melancholy or contentment. There was nothing to be angry about when everything she wanted to be angry at was right there in front of her; there was no chance to close her eyes and see the scene play out again if she had something to look at. Her self-awareness ticker spun a few cycles and promised to get back to her about it.

Rainbow looked like she was about to doze off when Applejack spoke, her words directed at Twilight. ‘Ah . . . Ah’m sorry Ah didn’t just come out and say it,’ she said, and immediately cast her eyes back to the floor.

It took Twilight a moment to register what she meant.

‘Ah didn’t want . . . not so soon after ya done come ‘round. Ah . . . Ah couldn’t stand the thought’a . . .’ She looked up and away, swallowing hard. ‘Ah knew it was gonna hurt—gonna hurt bad—Ah didn’t wanna make it any sooner than . . .’

She broke off, shaking her head. Rainbow Dash extended a wing, looking uncharacteristically concerned, and Applejack scooted her chair a little closer to be under it. Twilight . . . still didn’t have words, and just reached out a hoof, instead. AJ took it in hers, smiling a little, gave it another tight squeeze.

‘So . . . how did we all end up in the hall?’ Rainbow asked Applejack, scratching the back of her head with a free hoof. ‘I remember coming in here, seeing you all balled-up on the bed and just kinda . . . stayed put.’

Applejack shrugged, morosely. ‘Search me. All Ah remember is watchin’ you,’ she nodded to Twilight, who looked up. ‘Mutterin’ in yer sleep and cryin’ and . . . Twilight, Ah’m so sorry it had to be me to tell ya. Ah reckon just about anypony else coulda done it better.’

Twilight shook her head, finding her voice again at last. ‘No, AJ. It’s not your fault she’s . . .’ She took a rattling breath. ‘. . . that she’s gone. That’s all on m—on somepony else.’ She knew what would happen if she tried to take on the blame, and she just . . . didn’t have the energy to fight that battle now.

‘And to answer your other question,’ she went on, ‘the Princesses came by while you were asleep, wanted to . . . ask me about what happened yesterday. I guess they must’ve thought . . . thought you’d be more comfortable outside?’

‘. . . or wanted to make sure you got yer rest without untoward fuss,’ Applejack smiled, reading right through Twilight’s flimsy pretence. ‘Don’t worry about it none. Ain’t none of us liable to hold it against ya.’

‘On that note,’ Rainbow cut in, looking unsure. ‘Well—what did happen on that train? I mean, all we got was that it was some kind of bomb in the passenger section, but . . .’

‘Rainbow!’ Applejack snapped, horrified. ‘Ain’t you got any kinda—!’

‘It’s . . . okay, AJ.’ Twilight’s soft voice cut neatly across Applejack’s indignation. ‘I mean . . . I was going to have to tell you all eventually. Might as well get a headstart, right?’

‘Sure you wouldn’t rather wait an’ . . . an’ do it all at once, sugarcube? One time through, one fell swoop fer everypony? If’n you want to at all, that is, an’ ain’t no-one sayin’ ya gotta.’

‘Can’t I . . . lease the cart before I buy?’ Twilight said, smiling nervously in spite of herself. ‘Or . . . demo the cider, or—something? Metaphors.’ She flailed, mock-helpless, and the other two scoffed appreciatively.

‘Can’t keep a girl down, can we?’ Rainbow Dash said, shaking her head and laughing. ‘Long as you’re sure, dude.’

And Twilight told them. She told them everything that she had told Celestia and Luna, and then some—the little Rarity details that only they would care to know. What she’d thought of leaving Opal for the day, the colts they might meet on the train (Rainbow and Applejack shared a dubious look), the gossip Rarity had planned to follow up on in the capital. When they reached the platform once more, she slowed, but a gentle squeeze and reassuring words saw her through.

And when she had finished, the girls just sat there, seemingly lost in thought. Rainbow broke the silence, frowning.

‘Not . . . really much to go on, is it? I mean . . . the papers already kinda figured it had to be a pony, since they couldn’t find any record of, like, Griffons or something on board. Or Changelings, apparently, what with those crazy spell-wards they’ve got around the big towns now. You sure you didn’t see anyth—oof!’

Applejack had whapped across the ears with her hat, scowling. ‘Y’all got absolutely no sense of propriety what-so-ever, do ya?’

‘Tell me what that means, so I know if I’ve been insulted.’ Rainbow winced.

‘Means that when a pony goes and pours out her heart for ya, ya don’t ask for more, ya dingbat!’ She turned to Twilight. ‘Ah’m sorry, Twi. Thanks fer tellin’ us as much as ya did. Can’t’ve been easy.’

Twilight was worrying the blankets again. ‘I wish there were more. I-I mean . . .’ She looked up at them. ‘I wish there was more I could say. I’m sorry. Thanks for . . . listening.’ And her head drooped again.

Dash sighed, and massaged the bridge of her muzzle with her a free hoof. ‘I’m sorry, Twi. I’m not trying to make this harder on you. I’m just . . . so bucking mad.’

‘Yeah, and what else is new?’ Applejack snorted.

‘You want my very generous comfort-y wing or not? Pipe down, peanut. ‘Sides, everyone else got to say their piece.’

‘Alright, alright, Ah’m pipin’.’

Rainbow lapsed into silence for a moment. Then: ‘I . . . I don’t know. The worst part is, I can’t even wrap my head around what I’m supposed to be feeling, right? Like, I know I should be upset, or sad, or cry more that Rarity’s gone, but I just . . . can’t. I can’t stop feeling like somebody out there got off scot-free, and that I need to be out there pounding their asses into the dirt.’

‘Pony did it’s “gone”, too, Dashie,’ Applejack pointed out, quietly. ‘And Ah gotta say, yer a mite calmer than ya usually are when ya say yer “angry”.’

‘Only because I’m bone-tired.’ Dash yawned. ‘I promise I’ll be a real joy to be around tomorrow.’

‘Oh joy.’

‘That’s the one. But, still. It feels like the only thing that’s . . . that’s gonna make this right, is getting out there and beating the glue outta somepony else.’ She shook her head. ‘And . . . even that doesn’t feel right, right? Like it’s just . . . gonna make the same things happen over and over again, like how the old tribal stuff used to be.’

‘”Propagatin’ a cycle of violence?”’

‘Yeah, that, thanks.’ Rainbow sighed, gesturing futilely with a hoof. ‘So I’m not . . . trying to make it seem like less than it is, gals. Just . . . wanna find something I can do.’

Twilight looked at them with something like wonder. ‘How . . . how are you two doing this?’ she asked, shaking her head a little. ‘How can you just . . . talk? Like it’s nothing?’

‘’Cuz it ain’t nothin’, Twi. It’s everythin’’ Applejack said, still quiet. ‘It’s in everythin’ we’ve said to each other tonight. It’s in everythin’ we’ve talked about all day. It’ll be in everythin’ we talk about tomorrow. Once it’s everythin’—once everypony knows it’s everythin’—it just . . . gets easier to talk about sumthin’ else.’

‘Yeah, that’s probably the other part,’ Rainbow added. ‘We have had about eight more hours than you to process everything. Cuz, y’know, sleep.’ She shifted, so that her wing draped a little more comfortably over Applejack’s withers. ‘But, y’know—Twilight . . . we’ve been talking an awful lot, and you . . . I mean, you told us what happened, but . . . how are you holding up, dude?

Twilight looked down. ‘That’s . . . a lot. And I’ve already put a lot on you girls already. I don’t want to keep you if . . .’

‘D’these look like faces that plan on gettin’ sleep?’ said AJ, a hint of humour creeping back into her tone. ‘C’mon. We’re here all night.’

Rainbow nodded. ‘Dunno if you could guess, buuuut . . . everything’s cancelled tomorrow. Celestia is supposed to make a speech, but that’s about it. Everything else is gonna be closed.’ She shrugged. ‘For once, I know I can sleep in.’

Twilight put her hooves to her face for a moment, sighed, and nodded.

‘Rarity,’ she said, after a moment.

There was an intake of breath from Rainbow Dash, and Applejack shook her head. ‘She . . . they . . . they were able to identify her. That’s all Cap’n Prissy Black-britches would tell me when Ah asked.’

‘Able to?’ Twilight echoed, hollowly.

Applejack just nodded, and Twilight didn’t press. ‘Any—anything else?’

‘Her family’s comin’ up to pick up . . . pick her up tomorrow, but that’s all we’ve heard from the Ponyville side’a things so far.’

‘Sweetie Belle must be . . .’ Twilight blanched. ‘Sweetie Belle. How are she and Applebloom holding up? Scootaloo?’

‘Not . . . not great.’ Applejack’s tone was pained. ‘We caught yer balloon back down to Ponyville this afternoon when it looked like you wouldn’t be wakin’ up anytime soon—uh, we borrowed yer balloon, by the by—and . . . Ah’m still not sure Sweetie understood me when Ah told her, but Applebloom was in a right state. She wanted to come back up here with us, but . . . Ah didn’t have the heart to make her sit through all’a this.’

Rainbow gave Applejack a thoughtful look. ‘Y’know who surprised me, though? Granny.’

‘Granny Smith?’

‘Yeah, I thought she’d be a total battle-axe and just power through it, but she was right there with Applebloom.’

Applejack frowned. ‘Yer right. Ah wasn’t sure it was worth mentionin’, but yeah. Sobbin’ and screamin’ and carryin’ on. Kept sayin’ she’d thought it was safe. That the last time she sent somepony off to war was sixty years ago—that it shoulda all been over. That it was finally safe to raise a family.’

She bent her head. ‘An’ Ah didn’ know what to tell her, Twilight. Ah didn’t know what to say.’

Rainbow squeezed her shoulder, and Twilight her hoof. She sniffed a little. ‘Thanks, y’all. Ah’ll find the words, don’t worry. Just . . . couldn’t. Not today.’

Twilight shifted slightly in the bed.

‘That . . . that’s almost the worst part of it, isn’t it?’ She looked away, out the dark window, at nothing. ‘It’s not the destruction, not even the death, not even . . . It was other ponies, girls. Not some mythical creature out of the Brothers’ Grimoire. Nothing huge, nothing mysterious, nothing inscrutable. Just . . . ponies. Just ponies like us.’

‘A pony,’ Applejack corrected, gently. ‘One, singular pony. Ain’t no ravenin’ mob marchin’ on Canterlot with . . . pitchforks and knives in their teeth. That’s gotta mean sumthin’, right?’

‘And if one pony could do this much damage?’

‘Well . . . at the risk of repeatin’ m’self . . . that pony’s gone, Twi. Not much more harm she can do a body now. Doesn’t change a lick’a a what she did do, but . . .’

Twilight’s brows furrowed. ‘And . . . if she inspires other ponies to do the same? Or was inspired by someone else?’

‘On . . . what, just the basis’a hurtin’ folk?’

‘That—maybe power. We’ve met our fair share of ponies who’d stop at nothing to get power.’

‘What, like Trixie and that stupid amulet?’ Rainbow snorted. ‘Hey, look at it this way. She had a lotta power around her neck, Twi, and the best she could manage was two hind-bred foals to pull her great and powerful sled. This . . . pony you said you saw was just some nopony, right? Some face in the crowd. What makes you think she could even do that much?’

‘Trixie never killed anyone.’

‘Yeah, but Trixie was also an idiot,’ frowned Rainbow. ‘And kind of a punk, if we’re being honest. If she’s the kind of pony to get her hooves on the kind of power that could change minds, what’s there to be worried about?’

‘Yeah?’ Twilight’s voice was trembling, her tone hard. She had pulled her hoof away from Applejack’s. ‘And what if it doesn’t take that much power? What if all you need is one pony, one . . . family, one town to convince themselves that something—everything about Equestria is wrong, and they have to do away with it?’

‘Not gonna happen, obviously. There’s a lot of Equestria to get through before they even make a dent. I mean, sure they might hurt some ponies along the way, but—'

‘How many ponies, Rainbow Dash?!’ If Twilight could’ve been on her hooves now, she would’ve been. ‘How many ponies would it take before they were through? Before they had the kind of power that could—that could—!’

Rainbow threw up her hooves, wings flared angrily. ‘Buck, Twilight, I don’t know! Why are you acting like this is my fault?’

‘Sugarcube?’ Applejack had fixed Twilight with a probing look. ‘She’s right, yer gettin’ awful worked up about this. What’s goin’ on?’

‘Seriously!’ Rainbow Dash shot at Twilight. ‘It was one incredibly bucked-up mare who pulled a cut-rate Trixie gig with some fertiliser and something she scraped off a cave wall somewhere, and blew herself up in the process. Why do you always gotta overthink—?!’

‘Because it wasn’t just some bucked-up mare, it was a foal!’ Twilight shouted.

A ringing silence fell. Rainbow Dash’s wings were at full attention, quivering with barely-suppressed anger and—now—confusion. Applejack just stared.

‘A f—‘

‘A foal. Younger than Applebloom. Tiny, grey filly.’ Twilight slumped, shaking. ‘And she had that coat, and she had that bomb, and she . . . she killed . . .’

She buried her face in her hooves, and began to sob.

They stared at her for a moment, open-mouthed. Then Rainbow swore loudly, practically knocking the chair over as she got to her hooves. Trembling, she cracked open the door, and peered out into the hall. She muttered a few words to somepony outside, then closed the door quietly behind them.

Trembling, she walked back over to the bed and resumed her seat, still looking ready to hit Twilight. Her voice shook. ‘The others are up. Fluttershy thought you had a bad dream. I told ‘em to just go back to sleep, but Jacks . . .’ She turned, pale, to Applejack, who had followed Twilight up onto the bed and was now hugging her tightly as she cried. ‘What do we tell them? What are we supposed to do?’

But Applejack wasn’t listening. ‘Twilight? Sweetheart? Listen to me, it’s okay—yer gonna be okay, just don’t—!’

Twilight shook her head wildly, half-wailing. ‘And I lied about it, because of course I did! How am I supposed to tell you all something like that? How am I supposed to explain something that doesn’t make any sense?! How am I supposed to know how to deal with that, with a world where a child can kill one of my best friends?!’

Rainbow’s look of anger had evaporated as quickly as it had come. ‘Shit. Celestia doesn’t know—the investigation . . .’

Applejack looked over her shoulder, still struggling to keep a hold on Twilight. ‘Well, then get Spike! Get . . . somepony! Get ‘em to send a letter!’

Rainbow was out the door before she finished the sentence.

Twilight suddenly buried herself in Applejack’s grip, clinging to her like driftwood on a stormy sea. ‘A-and she looked at us like she hated us, Jackie . . . how—how can s-something so . . . small carry that much rage?’ And then she broke down completely.

‘Ah wish Ah knew, sugar,’ Applejack murmured blankly, pulling the now-wailing Unicorn into a tight hug, rocking her gently. ‘Ah wish Ah knew.’

The Day

Fire falls on Canterlot.

Not all at once, mind you. Not in the manner of a tidal wave or an earthquake, but . . . slowly.

Like snow.

Starbursts of ember, clots of cinder, whirling burrs of shrapnel; little comets, little trails of flame zipping this way and that. Little harmless pretty things, raining down from the blue, blue sky.

It's the first thing she sees and, for awhile, the only thing. Something about her has twisted unnaturally, and she's not sure what's up or down, ahead or behind. She feels at odd angles with the world. If only her head would stop spinning like that.

And the ringing in her ears—had she lost her balance, fallen down? She remembers her doctor warning her about light-headedness—even fainting—if she didn't shape up and start eating enough. Had she had breakfast this morning?

She stares at the little comet-trails of fire wending their way lazily through the sky and wonders. A little more so when she notices the smoke rising from just below her field of vision.

Toast, wasn't it?

She tries to lift her head to get a better look, and just as swiftly lets it fall. Nausea? Maybe she hadn't eaten. But if she'd fallen, if she's just lying there in the street—and she's almost certain she is—why hadn't anypony come over to help? She knows ponies, she knows they wouldn't just let her lie there if they'd seen something happen.

Maybe they'd fallen over too?

She's not at all sure. She'd like to think she knows her fellow mare, but maybe she's wrong. Maybe she's just lying here, as red, sooty snow falls around her, and no-one's coming to help. Or maybe she's just being paranoid, and someone will be there lickety-split.

No-one is. There is only the hard ground beneath her, and the wide blue sky above, and the soft little storm of fire raining down over her.

Nothing else.

Nopony else.

She's a little hurt by that—hurt that she's been left to fend for herself like this, hurt that she's hurting and nopony seems to care.

And she's not to be blamed, given what little she knows. Could she lift her head, she'd see the wreckage of the railcar she'd sat in not so very long ago, blistered and charring as it burned. Could she clear the ringing from her ears, she'd hear the screams of the ponies trapped within, and of those lying around her. Could she feel anything below her navel, she'd scream herself at the pain in her shattered hind-leg.

Could she know, she'd understand.

But she cannot, and so she just lies there on the hard ground, under the blue sky, and watches the fire fall.

'... an' apparently the Prench gov’nuh said "we weren't playing the same game as they were!" Ponies goin' in-an'-outta backrooms and what. An' you know what I said to me mates? I said "if they'd wanted to host the Equestria Games 'alf as bad as we did, theyd'a won it, wouldn' they?" Anyfin' else is just . . . poor sportsmareship or sumfin', innit?'

'Alright, gonna stop you there, Rufflefeather, thanks for stopping by the studio. We'll have more on that in a minute—the newly-appointed Regional Minister of Sport will be in to explain the selection of the Crystal province for this year's Games, and give us an idea of just what hurdles local government will need to overcome in order to best prepare for it.

'Just now, though, we have a traffic advisory. Weather Eye?'

'Yes indeed, Fast. We've just had a report of some kind of incident down near the railyard. Details are unclear at the moment, but Royal Guard detachments and the Fire Brigade are responding. Obviously, we'll keep you posted as things develop, but the first word from the Transit Authority has been to expect major delays. Residents and travellers alike are being asked to change any current travel plans, especially anything involving the southbound trains. Airship ferries will be made available to a number of destinations at no cost to ticketholders. Again, the Transit Authority says to expect major delays out of Canterlot Rail Centre this morning.'

'Thanks, Weather. As the mare said, we'll have more on this as it develops. This is Fast Talker, for Canterlot Radio One, your friendly voice from Mount Canter. Remember, we want to hear from you—letter, dragon post, magic-assisted remote voicing, we’ll take it all.

'We'll be back, right after this.'

::Market District to all Districts. What in Tartarus is going on this morning? Just came in on my shift and we're at Amethyst? What gives?::

::Weathermakers' to Market. Some kind of explosion down at the railyard. Did you not hear it on your way in? Over.::

::Market to Weather—not a damn thing. Anypony got eyes on? Have we heard from Command? Er, over.::

::Garden District. Nothing new on this end. Do we have anything on the cause? Somepony getting a little overzealous with fireworks before the summer solstice?::

::Amethyst-level for some fireworks? D'you really think th—::

::Command to all Relays: we're retaining Amethyst-level alert until further notice. Inform your Sergeants that all nonessential units are to be redirected to the Wards District railyard, south side, and to be on the lookout for any citizens acting oddly. Crown's not interested in another Green Wedding. Submit status reports to Lieutenant Pierce on the second link, keep nonessential chatter to the third. That'd be you, Market. Over.::

::Command, this is Garden. Anything else we can tell them to prepare for? Over?::

::Garden, Command. We're still working that out. Pauldron Street Station reported a heavy explosion from the railyard, probably originating from the inbound train.::

::Pauldron? Star Swirl's britches, they could see it from way up there, over?::

::Market, Command. Third link, Market, or go off-grid. Over.::

::Command, Market. Acknowledged, over.::

::All, Command. Do we have eyes on the railyard?::

::Command, Wards. That's a negatory. Two dark at the yard, one dim closer to the gate. Over.::

::Wards, Command, come back? Confirm you report two dark? Over.::

::Command, Wards. Affirmative. Secondary confirmation from flyover now—they were at the doors of the car that exploded, over.::

::Wards, Command. Car? Passenger car? Not the engine compartment? Over.::

::Command, Wards. Affirmative.::

::Command, Weathermakers'. What're we looking at here, Command? You don't think—::

::All, Command. Cut nonessential communication on all links. Retain Amethyst-level alert until further notice. Command out.::

'. . . we’ll take it all. We’ll be back, right after this.'

The coffee bar at Sugarcube Corner was unusually quiet this morning. The mixed rush of labourers and salary-ponies that always graced the little bakery at breakfast-time had ended a little early this morning, and all that remained of their passing was the occasional coffee stain or smattering of icing sugar from one of Mrs Cake’s prize jam doughnuts.

Pinkie Pie loved mornings like this, frankly—as nice as it was to be zipping back and forth, bouncing and pronking and being at her cheeriest-est for all the nice ponies that came in for a morning treat, it was also nice to just lean on the counter and watch them go by out in the street. She could tell so much from a pony’s gait, how quickly they walked, which shoulder they turned to spit their tobbacy over . . .

And it seemed like any other morning, in that regard. Berry Punch had staggered by at quarter to nine; Cherry, going the other way, already bedecked in her outsized aviator’s specs; Derpy, whistling tunelessly as she bounced off the hanging signs lining the avenue.

An average, perfectly harmless sort of day.

Which is why she wondered, vaguely, at the single little butterfly forming in her stomach after half-listening to that report on the radio just now. She smiled and danced around the shop, mop flitting across the floor, washrags akimbo, and in her heart of hearts she knew that something about today was going to be different. Not for the lack of customers—that was customary—or the Cakes’ mumbling exhaustion in the kitchen—that was children—or even the hurried gait of the last stragglers heading in to work.

That only left Spike, chin resting on his forearms beside the baked-goods case—half-asleep, his mug of cold hot-chocolate half-forgotten—and as she looked at him she felt the little butterfly turn over. The little dragon had come in alone that morning, saying something about being on his own for the day, ordered a mug of hot chocolate and a doughnut (extra sprinkles), and promptly fallen asleep at the counter.

He had seemed exhausted, and Mr Cake had made it clear when Pinkie asked that any friend of hers was welcome to stay as long as he liked—so long as he paid his tab—so they had left him to it.

But something about it nagged at her particular Pinkie-Pie sensibilities. It wasn’t that he shouldn’t be left on his own—Twilight sent him on errands often enough—or that he was particularly worn out—Twilight kept him up helping her with research often enough—or even that he was choosing to spend his free time in Sugarcube Corner this morning. No, something about it felt off, but for the life of her she couldn’t quite put a hoof on what.

So she just smiled, and shoved those feelings down, down, as far as they would go, and turned up the radio—that wondrous new invention! that phonograph from afar!—humming along with the jingles they played between newsbreaks. Maybe she would wait and ask Spike when he woke back up. Or maybe she’d ask Twilight, the next time she saw her. Or maybe she just wouldn’t worry about it at all, and let the next song play.

And so engrossed was she in that, in the dancing and humming, the scrubbing the floor and her brain, that for the longest time she didn’t even notice the streets filling up again—not with ponies on their way somewhere, but with ponies standing and staring, pointing and whispering, their eyes locked on the distant spire of Mount Canter.

She should not have cried out.

She knew that—had known it as soon as the sound had passed her lips. However brief it had been, however natural a reaction, she had not been alone in her chambers when it burst forth, unbidden, to match the knife she’d felt twist into her heart.

No, it had been in the throne room, among her subjects, her courtiers, her chamberlains and guardsponies—there for all to see, as her bearing slackened, her gentle smile faltered, and that poison, that facade-breaking cancer, slipped from her. And a moment later, when the windows rattled, when the pillar of smoke belched forth for all to see, when the court exploded into a murmur of panicked chatter, what had she done? Had she maintained her air? Kept the stiff upper lip and rode out the storm?

No.

No, she had sent them on their way—the servants to their posts, the Guard to retrieve their captains, the nobles to do . . . whatever it was they were pleasuring themselves with this century. And then she had retreated to her chambers—here, to her solar—to send summons, gather reports, and issue orders—all very deliberately and obviously away from the prying eyes of her people.

She had showed them she was affected.

She had showed them there was a problem.

Stupid.

She could only spare single words to chide herself with, occupied as she was ransacking her mental library, so she tried to make them count. Thoughtless. Unbecoming.

‘Expected. Genuine. Understandable.’

Unbidden, the swirl of darkness solidified into its familiar (not-unwelcome?) shape—tall as she, and glaring at her with twice the reproach. The star-patterned nightcap atop her head, comically askew as it may have been, did nothing to offset the look in the eyes beneath it.

Celestia sighed, and let the eddies of paper swirling around her fall into a neat stack on the table in the middle of the room. ‘I made it clear you weren’t to be woken for this.’

Luna snorted. ‘You would do as well to halt the tide, or stop the stars in their natural courses.’ Taking the non-greeting as permission, she moved forward, levitating the nightcap distractedly off her head, and magicking it into nonexistence with a little pop. ‘We knew as soon as you knew. A mere thousand years’ absence hath not the power to disconnect us from our subjects so.’

‘You felt them, then?’ Blessedly, she had managed to swallow the lump.

‘Every one.’

‘Then you know—’

‘Yes.’

‘And which—’

‘Yes.’

‘And yet you can stand there and tell me that I was right to—'

‘Yes, Tia.’ Reproach still simmered in her blue eyes, but tempered now, softer. ‘And do not for a moment think that but one of two felt the pall enough to give it voice. You were simply out among them, where we were comfortably abed. Fine and sturdy walls indeed, to mask it from the maids’ hearing.’

She shifted a little, on her hooves. ‘Still, lest it concern you unduly—we took the liberty of reading the castle—the servants, the staff, the thrice-dam’ned nobility—not a one heard your distress.’ Her eyes flashed back from the floor to meet her sister’s. ‘Though, ‘twould not change a whit, had they. ‘Twould be a greater unkindness for our people to believe their goddesses did not care.’

Celestia grimaced. ‘I’ve always hated that word.’ She moved a few paces as she spoke, consciously or unconsciously putting the table between herself and her sister.

Luna was not the least deterred. ‘Tis the role we have always served. Even,’ and here she took special care to enunciate her words, ‘when aught occurs beyond our control.’

‘This should not have been.’

‘Twas, regardless.’

‘We could have waited longer—come up with more rigorous tests for the technology—’

‘You said the same of the ox-cart when first they divined it. Would you have them in straw huts and bear-skins, as well?’ Luna shook her head, deflecting the hard look Celestia shot at her. ‘’Twas an accident, Tia. Such are the words on every pair of sensible lips around the castle, every report that hath been dispatched. “A terrible accident”.’

Celestia stiffened, but not in response to her words. She turned to Luna with an unsettling and unfamiliar look.

‘Not every report.’

Luna blinked. ‘What—’ Then she, too, froze, as Celestia forwarded her the mental broadcast. Her eyes scanned unseen text, ears turning unconsciously at the crisp voice offering its report from the Guards’ Telepathic Relay. Her face darkened, and teal eyes locked silently on magenta.

They listened to the message twice more before Celestia finally broke the link. They stared at each other for a long minute—not speaking, not reading, not probing, just making sure they understood one another.

It was Luna who ultimately broke the silence, voice clipped and suddenly very husky. ‘We must to the Yard at once. Shall we await you there?’

Celestia blinked, and shook her head. ‘No. There’s too much I’ll need to coordinate here. I’ll keep you apprised.’

‘Do,’ said Luna quietly, and turned.

‘Luna?’

The darker alicorn stopped, but gave no other response.

‘I may have to return to the throne-room—they’ll only worry more if one of us isn’t there. It . . . might be difficult to get in touch.’

Luna nodded, curtly, and made once more for the door.

‘Luna?’

Luna’s head dropped, though whether from exasperation or exhaustion or some other, unknown thing Celestia could not tell. Still she did not turn.

‘Be safe.’

Luna nodded again, and, without waiting for her to continue, stepped out of the solar. There was a susurrus, as of many thousands of bat-like wings, and then she was gone.

Alone, at last, Celestia let herself slump against the table, bracing herself against it for support. The words of the Guard Relay still echoed in her ears: passenger car . . . non-magical . . . tore through the Guards’ warding spells like . . .

She closed her eyes, and let out a long, ragged breath. Too many unknowns—perhaps, too many knowns—and too many pieces falling into too unfamiliar a pattern. With a sigh, she forced herself upright, levitated the stack of pages back in front of her, and proceeded to flip through them as quickly and thoroughly as she could.

And behind those hooded eyes flitting back and forth across the page, four mental legs carried her back and forth through a millennia-old library, stocked with an equal time’s worth of accumulated histories, vague prophecies, half-forgotten legends. All that it had told her so far was the very thing she had been fighting to explain to herself from the first moment the anguished cry had left her lips that morning:

This does not happen in my kingdom.

Smoke rose over Canterlot.

Rainbow Dash and Applejack stood shoulder to shoulder on the little hill overlooking the orchards. Big Mac stood close by, Applebloom perched between his shoulder blades.

One by one, or perhaps all at once, they'd seen the thin pillar of smoke rising above Mount Canter. And, one by one or all at once, they'd all headed for the highest vantage point on the farm—AJ and Big Mac from the orchards, Applebloom from the kitchen table, and Rainbow from her accustomed spot on the cumulus over the house. Now they stood in a loose cluster, staring transfixed to the north—all eyes locked on the tiny grey pillar that rose like steam off a pond in the bright summer morning.

It was a while before anyone spoke.

‘Tartarus d'ya think's happening, Jacks?'

'Dunno. Some kinda accident, maybe? A fire?'

'Accident? Come on, AJ, accidents don't happen in Canterlot. How much did they beef up the Fire Brigade after the Changelings—' She stiffened, wings flaring. 'You don't think . . .'

'No, Ah don't think. Not even the Changelings'd be stupid enough to try that little trick again.'

'They're Changelings. Stupid's, like, their middle name or something.'

Applejack sighed. ‘Yer overthinkin' it. Simplest explanation is, there's a fire that's got out of control, prob’ly in one’a the Lower Districts. And Ah'm sure the Fire Brigade'll take care of it.'

Rainbow scoffed, and turned away from AJ, flicking her tail dismissively. A simple explanation it was, and nicely rational, and everypony in the orchard knew it. And yet the tension remained—an unsatisfying explanation, an incomplete one. Fires didn’t burn out of control on Mount Canter, not when every other citizen was a Unicorn capable of summoning water at a whim.

A chill wind, too chill for the summer, whispered past them, and when it passed, the fur on necks and hackles stood perhaps a little more on end. Then Applejack shook herself a little, shivered her shoulders, and nudged her companions. Her eyes never left the expanding grey cloud as she spoke.

'Come on, y'all. Whatever's goin' on, we're not gonna do much good standin' here. Let's get back to the house.'

Wordlessly, the other three tore their gazes from Canterlot, and turned to follow her down the hill. Rainbow trotted a little ways ahead of the others, still resolutely showing her back to Applejack. Hence it fell to Applebloom, who'd slid off Big Mac's shoulders once they'd begun to move, to voice the question on everypony's mind.

'Sis?'

'Yeah, Applebloom?'

'Ya don't think anypony's hurt, do ya?'

Applejack turned at the note of concern in her sister's voice. 'Ah dunno, sugarcube,' she said gently, 'but Ah'm sure that if they are, everypony's doin' everything in their power to make it right.'

Rainbow scoffed again. ‘Yeah, right. Cuz they tooootally weren’t getting webbed up in green bug-snot this time in the spring.’

The next thing she felt was AJ’s hot breath in her ear. ‘You keep talkin’ like that in front of mah worried-sick, impressionable young sister, an’ yer gonna be spendin’ the night outside on yer cloud, ya hear?’

‘Loud and clear,’ Rainbow snapped back, likewise under her breath. ‘But doesn’t it worry you at least a little? I mean, usually when something like this happens, we’re right in the middle of it. Don’t you think we should’ve gotten a letter or something by now?’

She let the emphasis hang there for a moment, watching Applejack out of the corner of her eye. The other mare made no immediate reply, but slowed her steps long enough to let Big Mac and Applebloom pass. The littlest Apple tried to peek at the two around her brother’s massive legs, but with a gentle push and an almost-imperceptible nod to Applejack, Big Mac guided her gently away.

Applejack waited until they were well out of earshot, then turned to Rainbow, brows furrowed. ‘Alright, leavin’ aside the bitey rattlesnake talk, level with me—what’re ya thinkin’?’

‘Bitey rattlesnake talk?’

‘Goldurnit, girl, my mind’s already workin’ on the next thing, and yer sittin’ there fightin’ me on words. Gonna answer my question or not?’

‘Okay, okay—sheesh.’ Rainbow kicked a hoof through the loose clod of the yard. ‘I’m just saying—usually, when something like this happens, Twilight’s the first person we hear from. If it’s because there’s trouble, then off we go; if not, then not, but . . . how often do we just sit here and watch with no idea of what’s going on?’

‘Gimme yer best guess, then, sugarcube. Think the Elements are needed or not?’

‘I don’t—Jacks, c’mon. You know I’m not exactly the go-to girl on big decision-y stuff . . .’ She trailed off, meaningfully, and looked back over her shoulder at the very obvious plume still rising from the now-obscured mountain. ‘But, you know me. I wouldn’t be caught dead just . . . sitting around while Canterlot burns.’

‘Jess nappin’, Ah ‘spect.’ Applejack said, with the most pronounced of suppressed grins.

Rainbow leapt angrily into the air, wings flapping rigidly. ‘Oh, go buck yourself inside out, AJ. You wanna find out what’s going on or not? ‘Cuz you can sit there and work on the “next thing” all you want—I’m leavin’ for Ponyville in about ten seconds either way.’

‘T’find Twi, see what’s what?’

‘Yeah, that or Sugarcube Corner. They’ve got that new long-distance phonograph or whatever—maybe we could get something out of that.’

Applejack bit her lip, but after a moment’s consideration, nodded. ‘Gimme two shakes t’let the others know, and we’ll go, alright?’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ huffed Dash, returning tersely to the ground. ‘Just make it quick.’

But as Applejack trotted back inside, hollering for her family, Rainbow turned back to the plume one last time, letting the mask of carefully-practised unconcern slide off her face for the first time since their little troupe had assembled in the yard.

She let her eyes flick once more over the plume turning rapidly to haze as it boiled from somewhere in the lower city—took in the shape of it, the colour. Her weathermare’s wings itched, but she made no move towards the empty, quiet sky.

Was that it? Was it just that it was so quiet? The ponies in town had said after the Wedding that even down here you could hear the clatter and the howls and the screams. Lightning strikes and forest fires made noise—the animals tearing away from them through the Everfree did too. So why had there been nothing . . . ?

A shiver ran through her, and this time there was no breeze for her to blame it on. She shook herself a little, and tore her eyes from the greying pillar.

‘Hope you’re right,’ she said huskily as she turned back to the house. ‘You’d better be right.’

‘This is Fast Talker for Canterlot Radio One, your friendly voice from Mount Canter, and we’re back in the studio. Again, major story this morning is the incident down at the Canterlot Railyard—something to do with an inbound train; we’ve got reports so far of bangs, maybe an accident. We don’t have all the details yet, but if you do plan to give us a shout this morning—stopping by the studio or anything, please, let’s not get hung up on wild mass guessing, alright? No wild Changeling theories, none of that ‘Green Wedding Part Two’ nonsense we had from that couple of flower-shop owners earlier. I had hoped we’d be able to get more letters in about the Equestrian Games this morning, given that big excitement, but it looks like that’ll have to wait.

‘Anyway, we’ve got Spring Step down on the scene in the Wards District. Spring, anything you can tell us?’

‘Good morning, Fast. Yes, it’s a bit of a dog-and-pony down here. I’m uh, taking shelter in a shop-front right at the moment, given the number of ponies just galloping about in the street. Lot of folk heading towards the railyard, lot of folk trying to get as far away from it as possible. We haven’t really heard any further details, but the smoke plume is incredible. I don’t know if you can see it from further up the mountain?’

‘Yeah, actually, we’ve . . . we’ve been kind of watching it through the window, here. Anyway, Spring—has there been any further word from the authorities down that way? Managed to flag down a constable, or a Guardsmare?’

‘Not a chance, Fast. Any of the first responders who can stop to talk are telling everyone to clear the roads and just get away from the Centre.’

‘And can you tell us anything more about the ponies coming out of the station? What’s going on there?’

‘Can’t get close enough to tell, Fast. I’ve heard folk going by talk about “walking wounded”, but so far no sign of them or any of the ambulance teams coming the other direction.’

‘Right, thanks Spring. Anything else happens, give us a ring back, then. Listeners—just to confirm what was just said, yes, latest we’ve had from the Transit Authority is that there’s been a “major incident” down the Canterlot Rail Centre, and they’re expecting major delays on any inbound or outbound trains for the foreseeable. Once again, stay off the rails, don’t try coming in to Canterlot just at the moment.

‘But! Tiddlywinks in the office is giving me the high sign that we have callers on the line, so let’s go now to Trample, East Wards. Good morning, Trample, how d’ya do?’

‘Morning, Fast. Been a listener for a good while, second time callin’ in—love this voice-castin’ spell-paper, great stuff.’

‘Right, good to hear from you. Tiddly tells me you were on a train leaving the Centre around the time of the incident, is that right?’

‘Oh, Celestia’s beard, Fast, yes.’

‘Oi! Language there, mate, or we’ll have to drop you. Come on.’

‘Sorry, Fast. Anyway, yeah, we was on the outbound to Ponyville, an’ just as we was pullin’ out of the station, we felt some almighty bang—whole carriage jumpin’ an’ all. Everypony ducked, and there was screaming, an’ we could hear . . . things clatterin’ off the roof.’

‘What things? Wood, and such? Hooves? Metal shrapnel?’

‘Dunno, mate. Some of that, prob’ly. But there was also—’

‘Alright, so you heard the explosion—did you see where it came from?’

‘O-only once we was off the train, Fast. Big plume of smoke comin’ from up near the front of the train. Looked like it musta been the engine or summat.’

‘Once they got you off the train? Were you waiting long?’

‘Nah, mate. Fifteen minutes, tops. They had these big Horses—I mean, big blokes—comin’ out with rope an’ things and carryin’ folk to the station in twos and threes.’

‘Yeah? And what about you, mate, they carry you off?’

‘Aw, c’mon, Fast, whaddaya take me for? Got down on me own four legs and scarpered. There was stationmasters and what, standin’ around the platform, tellin’ us not to run, to evacuate quickly but not run—so obviously everypony ran.’

‘Heh. Well, I can understand that. Accidents are . . . well, they’re frightening things, rare as they are. And this sounds like a pretty bad one.’

‘Too right, Fast. Heard you talkin’ with that reporter about the smoke? Oh, it’s all over the place down here—like you walked straight out of a dragon nest in one’a them vulcan-o’s, right? Absolutely covered, forelock to fetlock in soot. An’ last I saw over me shoulder, the train was still on fire, too. Looked like it had a lot of carriages to go through before it was done.’

‘Good to know. Well, thanks for your time, Trample, hope you call in again under better circumstances.’

‘Aye t’that, Fast. Thanks.’

‘Right-o, another caller in. This time it’s—oh, good night—one Missus Crumplebottom of Nag’s End. You’re on the line, ma’am, how d’you do?’

‘Well, dear, obviously we’ve all had better days, my goodness. But I can tell you that I was at the kiosk when that whole awful racket started. Saw the whole thing, I did!’

‘Really? Well, what can you tell us, please?’

‘Well, dear, I was standing there in the queue, waiting to get a ticket back to Hoofington—my old stomping grounds, you know—and then there was this great boom like somepony had just let off a firework, and this great cloud of fire and wood and smoke went up. I tell you, that almost finished me off there and then!’

‘Oh, but you sound quite alright to me, ma’am—many moons young and all that. But your coat, your bag—I’m sure they’re absolutely covered in soot now.’

‘Oh, no, no, they sheparded us away quick as you like—pouring out of everywhere, they were. Never seen so many constables and Royal Guard in my life. But—oh, it was the strangest thing. You know how these trains work, don’t you dear? Got a big coal-fired something-or-other up front? Well, I swear to you that after that explosion went off, I saw that big engine go flying off into the stoppers at the end of the track, pretty as you please. All the cars behind it on fire, it was horrible, but the engine itself? Not a scratch!’

‘I . . . Well, uh . . . thank you, Miss. I suppose we’ll have to wait to hear from the, uh, the Fire Brigade to know what that’s all about.’

‘Any time, young man. You keep doing Celestia’s work with that whoozit you’re broadcasting from up the hill. Ta!’

‘Of course. Well, listeners, that’s . . . quite a lot going on at the moment, obviously. We’ll be keeping you apprised of any new information as we come across it. The latest is that the explosion and fire down that the Canterlot Railyard is now being treated as a “major incident”, end-quote. I also understand that Our Lady Luna, Princess of the Night, will be arriving in the Wards momentarily to assume command of the Guard detachments there.

‘We take you now to Spring Step, with another live report from the scene . . .’

She landed without incident.

The avenues of the Wards were nearly deserted now, blessedly—only a few stragglers remained, those too old or feeble or interested to evacuate the streets as quickly as their fellows. She eyed them, carefully, and the speed of their retreat seemed to imperceptibly increase.

Still, this was better than the panicked rout she had prepared herself to find. The trampling crush of a spooked herd was still a very real threat, she knew, even after thousands of years of civilisation; some things seemed hard-wired into the genetic memory of her people. She would have to commend the Guard on maintaining order and clearing the streets.

Ah—the Guard, yes. She would need to alert them. Lifting her horn, she tapped into the Guard Relay and broadcast on the wide-band.

::Attention all Districts. We, Luna, Princess of the Night and Maintainer of the Vigil, hereby assume command of this investigation. Our Nightwatch will supplement your teams at all locations.

Prepare for our arrival.::

In return she received a ragged chorus of assent and acknowledgement—many of the Relays, it seemed, were too fatigued or preoccupied to do more than send a ping of recognition back to even their diarch. She glanced up at the nearest clock-tower as she started in the direction of the Railyard.

A little over a half an hour—that was how long it had taken for all of this to unfold. A little over a half-hour since the explosion, a little over a half-hour since she had woken with a start with a searing pain in her chest, and her sister’s silent scream echoing through her waking mind. A little less than half that since she had burst into Celestia’s solar, and perhaps ten minutes since she had burst forth from it.

And now here she was, drawing closer to the source. She wondered a little at how much room there was in her mind to track the progress of such thoughts. To be sure, she was not the Celestia of a half-hour before, very obviously running down her mental catalogues to find out whatever she could about the risks of rail travel, or what-have-you; but neither was she the quietly-calculating Luna from the previous night, who by rights ought to have worked out a guilty party and the exact charge of negligence an accident such as this would entail.

But no. All that came to her, then, was the quiet, slow insistence that she simply walk down the avenue and arrive at her destination—to do what must be done.

And it was only when she drew level with the wrought-iron gates that her steps slowed.

As she rounded the corner of the last building, the surreal tableau was laid bare before her. White-grey flecks of ash blanketed the area like snow, and the smoke, though clearing now that the fires in the wooden carriages had been extinguished, still hung over the scene like an unearthly, stultifying fog. The carriages themselves—there was no question whence the explosion had come. The pastel-painted engine was almost pristine—the body perhaps a little warped from the heat, but otherwise unscathed. The first and third cars were badly burnt, almost blackened husks, and those further down the train in almost as poor of shape, but the second?

There was a massive hole in the side of that carriage, nearly three-quarters the length of the entire car—its edges jagged, and uneven. In nearly the same proportion, the roof of the car had peeled back in all directions from a point near the hind-end, looking more like the petals of a flower than anything made by the work of hooves and horns. Complementing the image was the sheen of drying water on nearly every surface: the charred wood of the carriages, the warped metal of the engine, the patterned pavers of the platform—a blackened bloom, in a freshly-watered garden.

And on the platform—

Luna let out a long breath through her nostrils, her eyes sweeping over the one thing the royal pages, the updates from the Guard—even the news report she had caught the tail end of on her way out of the castle—had glossed over.

Luna was no stranger to death. She had survived—endured? conquered?—millennia of war, of savagery, of devastation—the worst the Old World had to offer, the worst a thousand years travelling the Planes could subject her to. To say that this was somehow different . . . ?

No; that it simply was not.

The bodies simply lay there, mundane as any warzone, exactly where they had fallen, where they had been thrown. Some were moving; some were not. Some were crying out; some were not. Some were attended; some were not. Some were whole; some were . . . not. She knew, that if she gave it just a moment’s consideration, she could calculate the exact trajectory each one had taken as they were thrown from the cracked, charred carriage—even calculate the odds that any given pony, on any given trajectory, had survived.

And perhaps, she thought dully, therein lay the issue. Perhaps it was less important that this be somehow phenomenal to her, than how fully problematical it was that it was not.

A warzone, in the city she had served for a thousand-thousand generations, and all she could do was linger there in the shadow of the gate that welcomed ponies to it, and stare at the corpses of her people.

There was nothing within her in that moment. No tears, no rage, no sick feeling, no sense of palpable loss. Nothing but the dull sense of mortality—a number, a list, a tally, a scorecard.

Almost unconsciously, her legs carried her forward. Almost unconsciously, she joined the bleary-eyed Knight-Captain in charge of the scene, and almost unconsciously asked him for his report, almost unconsciously nodding as he told her the exact figures. Almost unconsciously, she issued orders to the Guard, the Brigade, the Hospitallers—prioritising treatment, setting patrols, skimming the wreckage for more survivors. Almost unconsciously, she walked among the survivors, healing where she could, leaving the field surgeons to their work where she felt no need to intervene.

And there, as she didst bestride the wreckage, she felt something build within her—around the grey flakes of ash, the black-charred carriages, the twisted bodies; around the shouts of the Guard, the screams of the wounded, the hiss of the smoking wood; around the metal tang of blood and flesh, the sharp unfamiliarity of ammonia and stench—around and through and beyond it all, she felt the beginnings of an echo. A single, piercing sound from across the ages, from every battleground, every killing field, every shallow grave, shrinking to a point across the vast histories of her life, half-lost as it touched her heart once more.

And then something else—firmer, closer, pleading—brushed against her consciousness, and she turned.

Smoke rises from Canterlot. The embers have clotted—heavy, and thick, and billowing in great bursts and clouds from somewhere just beyond her sight. The rain is gone, yet the thunderheads swell; the sun climbs, and the skies grow dark.

Clarity is still elusive. More than once, heavy blackness has assailed her, and, more than once, her leaden eyelids have fluttered closed against the sting of ash and weight of effort. Easy, too easy, to slip away, but each time she does, the pounding in her chest pulls her sharply back again. A cycle, a dance—a gentle fade and the harrowing rush of return, twisting her, pulling . . .

Pulling?

Pulled?

Is she pulled?

Or pushed?

She struggles—flails on the edge of consciousness. She is adrift on inky waters, splashing and paddling and fighting the sucking tides. She breaks the surface; she is dragged under again. She gasps for breath; air and bile fill her lungs. She tears her leaden limbs from the ground, the water, the empty gap of space; she lies almost perfectly still.

The cycle continues, again and again, and then . . .

She becomes aware of something at once nearby and unutterably distant; warm as company, cold as starbeams. Faint, but shimmering, on the edge of consciousness: a light? No—a vibration through foetid air; a sound. Mounting, yet at the edge of hearing, as the crashing of waves on distant cliffs.

An echo.

She reaches out—recoils. It is cold. Cold as ice, cold as death and hatred and undertow, and burials in dark earth. She recoils . . . and so does the echo. It turns, a star now, a white light in murk, the cold retreating in favour of something . . . else? A question, softly, a mirror to hers.

She tries to lift her head, to see if it is who she hopes, she thinks. She feels the muscles of her neck resist; fatigued, leaden—not up to a task as complex and involved as lifting a whole head.

But she pushes, and it listens.

She lifts her head, disturbing the ashen blanket she finds herself wrapped in. She takes in something more than the ashen sky, the grey-black clouds assailing her sense of place—she takes in a train-carriage-smoke-wreckage-bodies-constables-platform in the single moment before she locks eyes with the star, the echo, the cold-and-warm—eyes shining like turquoise, like deep and depthless gems.

The eyes flick away, give a shout, flick back and move rapidly towards her—expanding, expanding to fill her whole vision with something very much not cold.

Turquoise eyes . . .

But—that’s wrong. Everything about her is wrong—she can see that now, as the eyes and the things around the eyes charge forward. The wrong face, the wrong shape, the wrong colour, the wrong . . .

Wings?

Her vision swims again, as she swims again on the inky sea. Something in her neck spasms wetly, under the skin, and she feels her strength finally leave her. As her head falls to earth, and consciousness flees her one final time, she again sees the last, earnest look of concern her friend had ever worn.

. . . the matter? . . . look like you’ve just seen a gh—

Sugarcube Corner was quiet. No merry rumble from the ovens, no hiss of water from the dish-washing taps. Not even the quiet chatter of the accustomed mid-morning rush—the stay-at-home fathers and mothers, come to pick up their baking for the week; the second-shift workers, preparing to start their days at noon.

The plume of smoke rising from Mount Canter had cleared, but the haze it left lingered—brown, cloying, murky. Palpable, too, settling on the town as it had. Not a soul was there to be found in the store, on the street, in the square. Not a soul out for some shopping, or a friendly visit, or even a quick bite at the cafe. Every so often, a head would poke out of an upstairs window, or around the frame of a painted-wood door, casting a brief glimpse up the mountain again, but those heads retreated quickly, and no other part of a pony followed.

It seemed strange to Applejack, as she frowned out the window of the empty bake-shop, that a town so often visited by disaster could still find itself so wrong-hoofed by them. A crowd might gather, and the murmurs of speculation might build, yes, but in the end everyone would just quietly go back to their homes and workplaces. Was it terror? she wondered. Or was it simply that singular provincial desire to leave well enough alone?

She sighed, and shook her head, looking over her shoulder at the two ponies (and the sleeping dragon) clustered near the till.

Mrs Cake, heeding the hard-won wisdom of the self-made mare and calling it quits on the day, had closed down the store properly not long after. Then, perhaps sensing that the girls needed Pinkie to themselves, she had shooed her husband upstairs to care for the infants, and the three had been left alone.

They had chatted a little, exchanged pleasantries. Pinkie had filled them in on what news there’d been from the radio; Rainbow had shared her concerns about the Elements. Applejack had frowned on hearing the problem had originated at the railyard, but said only that she couldn’t remember the last time there’d been an accident on the Ponyville line.

No-one had heard from the other three girls, and all eyes slid studiously off the snoozing dragon whenever they were mentioned.

They had waited awhile, then, snacking on breakfast sundries Pinkie had whipped up from the kitchen. The newscast droned on, repeating the same tired admonition to avoid travel to Canterlot, and though at least three ears were constantly pricked in its direction, the tinkling bell above the door did not chime.

After a quarter hour’s solid pacing, Rainbow had announced she was going to go and retrieve the others, and Applejack had offered to keep watch on the window for her return. Fluttershy had arrived some few minutes later, looking characteristically uncertain and apologising profusely for not somehow divining she was wanted, but Rainbow was nowhere to be seen.

That had been half an hour ago, and Applejack’s eyes were tired from watching the sky. She walked back over to the counter, and hefted herself awkwardly onto one of the high stools next to the counter. Pinkie’s eyes locked with hers as soon as she was settled, and Applejack had the unpleasant feeling they’d been boring into the back of her head since Rainbow had left.

‘It’s been almost an hour, Jackie,’ she said quietly. Her eyes were wide, in their accustomed manner, but nowhere in them was the usual innocent twinkle to be found. ‘Shouldn’t we wake him up?’

There was an air of finality to the question that made Applejack uncomfortable. She shifted her shoulders a little, noncommittally. ‘Ah say we let the lil’ man sleep long as he wants. It’ll be hard enough tryin’ to explain this to the young’uns when we do have all the facts; Ah don’t fancy tryn’ to pull somethin’ covincin’ outta my hat without ‘em.’

Fluttershy nodded vigorously, but Pinkie still wore that same wide-eyed look, half-pleading, half . . . what? ‘Jackie, I reeeeeeally think we should ask him about Twilight. She doesn’t usually leave him unattended like this unless she’s going to be out of town, and even then he’s usually over at Carousel Boutique mooning over Rarity, but . . .’

She trailed off meaningfully, but Applejack just shook her head. ‘No. No, Ah ain’t gonna wake him up for . . . this.’

‘But Jackie—!’

‘No, Pinkie. We’ll wait for Rainbow to get back with the girls—or not.’ She cast Pinkie a shrewd look. ‘Why? Somethin’ about this settin’ off that dad-blamed sixth-sense’a yours?’

Pinkie shifted a little behind the counter. ‘Since this morning. An eeny-weeny little spiny-shiver while I was clearing up after the breakfast rush, then a twiddle-tweak tail in the lull, and now just . . . kind of a sick feeling in my tummy,’ she finished quietly.

Applejack sighed. ‘Ah reckon we’re all feelin’ that about n—’

The door to the street slammed open, and they all jumped. Rainbow Dash swept in with all the force of a gale, brows drawn together in a dark frown, and kicked the door closed behind her.

‘They’re not there.’

‘Neither’a them?’

‘No.’ Rainbow was breathing hard, and Applejack could see the muscle working in her jaw. ‘Golden Oaks, Carousel Boutique, Town Hall, Zecora’s, the little outdoor number they sometimes grab lunch at . . . nothing.’

‘Who’re you talking about?’ yawned a new voice from beside the counter.

They all turned to find that Spike’s head had come up off his elbows. He worked his shoulder with a claw before yawning again, regarding them with an almost wistful smile. ‘Gosh, I guess I must’ve slept a lot longer than I planned to. What time is . . .’

But he trailed off, the smile sliding from his features as he got a better look at the four mares around him. ‘. . . what? What is it?’

Applejack started, but Pinkie Pie cut in before she could even take a breath. The look of intensity she had worn not seconds before was gone, to be replaced by a warm and motherly smile. ‘Heya, Spikey-wikey!’ she cooed, noogieing his crest with a hoof. ‘Can’t believe you fell asleep up here at the counter—and with me talking to you and all!’

Spike grinned, a little sheepishly. ‘Ahh, sorry, Pinkie. Twilight had me up really early this morning helping her pack for her trip.’

Applejack shared a look with Rainbow Dash, but if Spike noticed, he said nothing.

‘Trip?’ said Pinkie Pie, eyes wide and enthusiastic. ‘Ooh! You know how I love trips. What kinda trip?’

‘Oh,’ said Spike, cocking his head a little. ‘Didn’t she tell you? She and Rarity were supposed to go up to Canterlot today. She was going to meet up with an old friend of hers from before she moved down here—Moon Dancer. And Rarity said she needed to pick up some new fabrics for a commission.’ He sighed, dreamily. ‘Then they were going to grab lunch and catch the train back down to spend the afternoon in the library with tea.’

‘Spike—’ Rainbow Dash began, but again Pinkie Pie’s squeal of delight won out.

‘Ooh, tea! Ooh, that’s just so refined, isn’t it? Just like Rarity to want to put together a nice afternoon like that for Twilight. Well, you’ll be needing all sorts of goodies for that, I’ll bet my hoof on it!’ She waved it for emphasis. ‘Tea-cakes and petit-fours and biscuits, oh my! Whaddaya think the girls would like, hmm? A Canterlot treat? Or d’you think they’ll have filled up on that by the time they get back?’

‘No, I think we’re—’ Spike started, then snapped his fingers. ‘Actually—that’s right, part of the reason I came in this morning was because we’re out of sugar. How’d you know?

Pinkie Pie merely winked. ‘A baker never reveals her secrets, Spikey-wikey!’

‘Well, uh, I guess—could you put a pound-bag on my tab then, please?’

Pinkie didn’t even bat an eye. ‘Yupperoni! Two shakes!’ She disappeared into the store-room in an instant, then poked her head around the jamb, winking at Spike again. ‘And don’t you even think of moving, Mister!’

Spike chuckled. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it, Pinkie. I’ve still got this awesome doughnut to finish!’

Said pastry was halfway to his mouth before he’d even finished his sentence, clutched protectively into two tiny claws. Taking a healthy bite, he looked back around at the others, as if suddenly remembering they were there.

‘So, why were you looking for Twilight and Rarity, anyway?’ he asked, voice slightly muffled by the thick wad of dough.

But nopony seemed capable of answering him. Pinkie’s words still hung heavy in the air between them, and no-one seemed ready to contradict a syllable. Fluttershy simply looked stricken, Rainbow Dash had ducked behind a wing she was now furiously trying to groom, and as for Applejack . . . ?

‘Hold that thought, Spike,’ she said, trying very hard to keep her voice level as she tossed her hat on the counter and made her way around it, towards the swinging door Pinkie had disappeared through. ‘Ah’m gonna help Pinkie with the sugar. Gal keeps sayin’ the lid’s gettin’ stuck, and she’s already had a rough mornin’ as it is.’

She gave Rainbow Dash a quick, firm look, and just long enough to see her return it from behind her wing, then turned, and shouldered open the door.

To her credit, she managed to keep her voice and her hoofsteps even and untroubled until she had shut it behind her. But as she approached the pink mare humming merrily in the corner, she could feel every inch of her body trembling with suppressed anger.

‘Pinkamena Diane Pie, what in Tartarus was that?’

‘What was what?’ Pinkie turned, hoof-scoop poised over the sugar-bin.

Applejack spat savagely on the ground between them, forcing Pinkie a step back. ‘What, ya gonna make me explain it like yer a foal? As if ya don’t know!’

‘I really don’t, Jackie.’ Her aspect had changed. Gone was the bubbly tweeness she had used with Spike, and back again was the look she had worn earlier—pleading, yes, but also . . . forlorn?

Whatever it was, Applejack didn’t care. ‘“By the time they get back?” How dare you? Lyin’ to the boy like that, and makin’ him think— think that—!’

‘That everything’s okay?’ Pinkie said, quietly. She let the scoop fall back into the sugar, and turned, sighing. ‘Well, you know me, Jackie. Can’t let anypony go without a smile on their face.’ She shrugged, mane bobbing about her like so much candy floss. ‘If we treat it like it’s no big deal, like we shouldn’t be worried about it, then it won’t seem as scary to him when we do tell him. That’s just how ponies work, silly.’

‘But it is a “big deal”. You lied to him.’

‘Oh, really? For all we know, everypony made it off that train and is sitting around in their fancy cafes swapping stories about the adventure.’ She laughed, hollowly. ‘And I have to say, what a laugh, coming from the mare who didn’t even want to wake him up a few minutes ago.’

‘A’fore we knew it was personal?’Applejack hissed.‘Yer damned right. But it is, Pinkie. Ain’t no denyin’ that now. You and Ah both know just how many trains leave Ponyville fer Canterlot that time’a mornin’.’

‘We still don’t—’

They were interrupted by the creaking of the door. Fluttershy stood there, white as silk and weaving gently on her hooves. ‘Girls . . . the radio. You need to hear this.’

‘. . . an’ all I’m thinking about now is getting to work in one piece, sitting down at my desk and havin’ a stiff cuppa.’

‘Of course. Joking aside, alright, have some coffee, put double the sugar in, and stay safe, won’t you?’

‘Will do. Thanks, Fast.’

‘Spring Step’s back in the studio. Spring, what can you tell us, please?’

‘Okay. Full report that’s come from the Guard so far; we got this out of Withercove within the last two minutes:

‘At approximately half-past eight this morning, the Royal Guard and Fire Brigade were called to Canterlot Rail Centre to respond to an incident on the inbound Ponyville train. All available emergency services, including several detachments of Celestia’s Hospitallers, are currently at the scene. It’s too early at this stage to state what has happened, but there have been multiple, corroborated reports of an explosion originating from one of the passenger cars near the front of the train. Again, it is too early to say what might have caused these explosions, but the Royal Guard is working closely with Transit Authority officials to determine what occurred. There have been upwards of fifty casualties reported at the scene, but most are confirmed to be walking wounded. Many have already been identified as Canterlot natives, but a small number of Ponyville residents have also been confirmed, among them two Pegasi and a Unicorn. Triage and medical operations will be taking place at the nearby St. Hestia’s Clinic, Lower Wards. Residents are encouraged to avoid the immediate area to prevent disruptions to necessary medical services.

‘We . . . we have also been told that, in addition to the wounded, the Guard has been able to confirm some fifteen to twenty fatalities resulting directly from the explosion. None of the victims have yet been identified, but anyone with information or questions regarding passengers is encouraged to speak to their local constable or any available Guardspony.’

'And all of that was directly from the Guard?'

‘It was just given to me now, yes.’

‘And the official word remains the same?’

‘Yes: the Guard is advising everyone to stay home, stay at work, stay wherever you are, and avoid travel if at all possible. Once again, all rail service to and from Canterlot Rail Centre has been cancelled this morning. It—’

‘That’s cert—’

‘Fast, please. I know this . . . this is uncommon, and obviously it’s not coming from the Guard, but . . . everyone listening, if you’ve got loved ones expecting you today, and you’re safe, it’s probably worth getting word to them, because . . . let’s face it, it’s going to be on everypony’s minds this morning.’

‘. . . thank you, Spring. I know that if I could get in touch with my wife right now, I’d want also to know she were safe. Celestia be with everypony, today—and Luna tonight.

‘This is Fast Talker, for Canterlot Radio One.’

‘. . . c’mon, girls. We’re going to Canterlot.’

‘But Jackie—’

‘Ah don’t wanna hear it, Pinkie. Y’all grab whatever ya might need on the way.’

‘Applejack?’ A slight tremble.

‘. . . what is it, Spike?’

‘They only . . . they only said “a Unicorn”. Wh-what if—?’

‘Hey. Don’t . . . don’t you worry none, sugarcube. We’re gonna get up there right quick and figure out what’s goin’ on just as soon as we can, alright?’

Sister.

I’m here, Luna. What did you find down there? Anything that might explain what happened?

Aught, mayhap. Aught near the carriage smelt familiar—brimstone, or battlefields. We have tasked the Guard to investigate further. Regardless, ‘tis not the reason for this dispatch. You . . . you are needed here.

Needed . . . ? Luna, I told you before, I cannot leave the court—too many of our citizens are already hurting and afraid. If I were to suddenly disappear . . .

Celestia . . . the Elements. Two were aboard—the Unicorns. One have we from the wrack retrieved, and seen to the healers of St. Hestia’s. Her pain was . . . incredible. ‘Twere strong enough alone to call out to us and beg answer.

One?

. . . aye.

‘AJ, I could fly on ahead, try and get to the clinic first, if—’

‘Not a chance in Tartarus. We’re stickin’ together ‘til this thing’s through. That goes for all’a y’all, ya hear?’

‘Yeah yeah, loud and clear. But you’d better have a real cunning plan under that hat of yours for getting us to Canterlot. No trains, remember?’

‘Agh, of all the Celestia-damned . . . no. C’mon, y’all. Somepony in this one-jalopy town’s gotta have a balloon, or a flyin’ chariot, or . . . sumthin’.’

Then, the other . . . ?

She . . . she was among those we felt from the first—‘twere too great a distance to hear her voice distinctly among the throng, but . . . we came upon the body. I’m . . . sorry, Tia.

. . . I will be there shortly. Did you . . . did you find a dragon? Among the living, o-or . . . ?

The child, Spike? Nay . . . nay, we didst not. Knight-Captain Bore confirmeth.

Oh—I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you knew him.

By sight alone. Were he not consort to an Element . . .

Of course. But—thank you. That . . . that’s good to hear. I’ll tell the girls where to find you. They’re resourceful, they’ll . . . find their way up there, especially once . . . once they hear. If you haven’t heard from them soon, let me know; I’ll send the Guard down to collect them.

We will await their arrival, then. Tia?

What is it?

. . . be careful on your way down.

‘What about you, Pinks? Any brilliant ideas?’

‘Well, I could get out my whirligig, but . . . it only seats one. Aaaaand it’s kinda slow. Unless you’d rather take a ride on the wild side with my party cannon?’

‘Yeah, pass. But what about that trick where you strap a bunch of party balloons to your—’

‘Wait, balloons! Twilight still has that balloon that we used to catch Dash when she got all—hyeurk!’

‘Woah, nelly! . . . what’s it say, Spike? Is it from Twilight?’

‘N-no . . . no. It’s from Celestia. She wants us to head to that clinic they mentioned on the radio. She says to come as quick as we can. S-she says . . . Luna is going to meet us there.’

‘Then what are we waiting for? I say we get Twilight’s balloon, do whatever hot-air doohickey nonsense we need to to make it work, and then Fluttershy and I drag it to Canterlot.’

‘No arguments here. C’mon, y’all. Daylight’s burnin’.’

::Command to all Relays. It is two hours to Apex. Your reports, please.::

::Weathermakers’ to Command—all quiet here, Captain. Everypony’s been following the evacuation orders, staying off the streets. One patrol had to talk to a couple of folk watching the rescue effort from the avenue, but nothing serious. Over.::

::Wards to Command. Fires doused in all carriages, engine secured. Rescue efforts proceeding apace. All survivors cleared from wreckage. Continuing work with the b— . . . With those that didn’t make it. Over.::

::This is Knight-Captain Bore, at St. Hestia’s. Princess Luna has ordered room cleared in the street for a single airship—civilian model, likely single-engine. Four to five occupants, top-priority personnel. Direct them to St. Hestia’s as soon as they land, escort if necessary. Acknowledge, over.::

::Wards post acknowledges, Knight-Captain. Over.::

::Garden, Command. All quiet, over.::

::Market to Command. Nothing here, either. We had one—sorry. We had one Guardsmare in our detachment formally request leave to visit the hospital—apparently she knew someone on the train. Sergeant granted her request. Noth—nothing else to report, over.::

::All, Command. So noted, on all reports. ::

‘By yer leave, Highness. We came as quick as we could.’

‘Ye are all here, then? ‘Tis no small blessing, given the chaos we had to face just getting in the door. And nay, nay—thou needst not bow, scion of Orchards. We stand not on ceremony in times like these.’

‘Alright then—Celestia’s note said we had to show up here right away. What’ve you got for us?’

‘Rainbow Dash, you—!’

‘Nay, ‘tis a question fair spoke. What hast thou been told?’

‘Only what we managed t’get outta the radio, Princess. And Spike here told us Twilight and Rarity were headed up to Canterlot today, and that would’ve been the only train, so . . .’

‘Twilight and Rarity, yes.’ A sigh. ‘Yes. Prithee, follow. And keep ye close—many and quick do the gurneys run through these halls, and not always with regard to who might be in them.’

::Command, Garden . . . was there something else, Captain?::

::All, Command. Yes—apologies. Knight-Captain, you’ll want to hear this as well. But . . . before I say anything else, I want to thank each and every one of you for your service. You are a credit to the Armour, to the Oath, to the Crown. You have served with distinction, and the work you and your detachments have done today has demonstrated just how right we were to trust you with the responsibilities of the Guard.

But . . . what I’m about to ask of you, what I’m about to ask you to share with your Sergeants, will be the hardest thing you’ve done today.::

It was the longest walk of Spike’s life, and yet—somehow, all he could register of it were the flashbulb portraits they passed. Two stallion doctors running with a gurney, hooves thundering, white coats whipping behind them. A lone foal, kicking its heels against the seat of a chair. Three ponies in silhouette behind a curtain, their heads bowed. A mare, scant moons older than Applebloom, clanking down the corridor in full Guard regalia.

‘Your Highness! Princess Luna!’

Luna had been studying the middle distance intently, but her eyes snapped into focus at once. ‘Aye, Guardsmare, what news?’

‘Message directly from Command, Highness,’ the mare wheezed. ‘Marked urgent.’

‘Very well—receipt is acknowledged, as is your service. About thy business.’

‘Aye, Highness.’

And she was gone. Luna tucked the missive away under a wing, and it disappeared from view.

To Spike’s left, Applejack coughed, politely. ‘. . . beggin’ yer pardon, Princess, but are ya sure ya don’t wanna—’

‘Nay. Not afore we have seen this through.’

They came to a door at the end of the hallway, and Luna’s steps slowed. Spike’s heart—already racing, beating in the back of his throat from the moment Applejack had slapped him on her back and taken off full pelt for the library—did another backflip in his chest, and he felt his claws begin to shake.

‘In here,’ said Luna, quietly, and stood aside to let them pass. Spike looked from mare to mare around him, but all eyes were fixed intently on Applejack’s back as she walked forward with uneven steps, and put a hoof to the door. It swung open at her touch, to reveal—

A hospital room. A room like any of the others they had passed. A small window, admitting the near-noonish air; a hanging light; unfamiliar machines; a table; and, in the far corner . . .

‘There’s only one bed,’ breathed Fluttershy, behind him, almost to herself.

One bed. And in it, one mare, her breath rising and falling slowly, evenly—but obviously, and without assistance. Her violet mane was draped over the pillow like water, her face was dirty with soot, but she almost looked . . . peaceful? Even the stiff plaster of the cast on her left-hind leg could not break the illusion of a girl floating in a sea of linen cloud.

But there was only one bed.

Slowly, agonisingly, they turned. Slowly, agonisingly, Applejack’s pale face locked eyes with Luna.

‘P-princess . . . where’s Rarity?’

And for a moment, just a moment, Luna looked less like a creature of immortal age and regal bearing, and more like the portrait of one—something seen through glass, through water.

Then she closed her eyes, and told them.

For a moment, there was only silence in that little corner of the packed clinic. Then there came to Spike’s ears another sound—unearthly, keening. A piercing, atonal scream, louder than anything in his life, that seemed to echo and refract through every pair of the blank and staring eyes around him, around the suddenly-engulfing pink fur into which he found himself thrust, overwhelming, crushing.

It took him a few minutes to realise that the throat giving voice to the scream was his own.

::Just under an hour ago, we received the results of the forensic screen performed by the lasses down at Withercove. Trace samples of an unknown substance were recovered from the scene early this morning and, at the direction of Princess Luna herself, were sent for a thorough analysis. The report indicates that the substance was a fine-powder mixture of ammonium nitrate, coal dust and aluminium.

I know what you’re thinking, because I asked the same question when the report was presented to me—why wouldn’t those substances be present on any coal-fired train in Equestria equipped with a lavatory?

What I was told, and what I need you to impart to your Sergeants, is that according to Withercove, the sample was too pure, too finely mixed, to have been naturally occurring—and, that it caught fire in the lab when exposed to strong light. No spark, no external impetus. Withercove is calling it a ‘highly unstable reactive agent’, and believes that in sufficient quantities, any exposure to a trigger factor could result in a ‘self-sustaining dragon-tongue explosive reaction’. In other words, what we’re looking at here is a—::

Luna unfurled the crisp vellum of the report, and let her eye fall blankly over it. The boy’s howls were muffled behind the closed door of the room behind her, but she felt no less empty than the sound that tore from his lungs like fire.

It took her three passes to fully absorb what she was seeing, and the words she mouthed next were one she had not given a second thought to for nearly twelve-hundred years.

. . . bears an uncanny resemblance to a—

Rainbow trembled next to Applejack, her eyes wide, staring at Twilight’s matted, soot-flecked coat. Applejack just barely caught her words, over Spike’s wails, Pinkie’s sobs, Fluttershy’s sniffling tears.

‘Celestia, Jacks, look at her . . . she looks like she just jumped on a—’

::—bomb.::

‘A bomb.’

‘ —ports are referring to it as a bombing. Obviously, we’ve—’

‘Mummy, what’s a “bomb”?’

. . . calling it a bomb, Tia . . .

‘Haven’t ever heard of such a thing—what rubbish! A “bomb”. Honestly . . .’

::So that’s it, then? A bomb, right here in the capital.::

‘A bomb.’

‘A bomb.’

‘A bomb.’

The Day After

‘Thou art commander of the team investigating suspect leads?’

‘Aye, marm.’

Luna extended the thin parchment she had received. ‘Information from our prime witness. Amend thy search as needed and report back per previous instruction.’

The stallion read through the scrawled note, blinked, and nodded. ‘Aye, marm. Your Highness’ will be done.’

‘Very good. About thy business.’

Knight-Commander Ravel turned smartly on his heel and departed, and Luna returned to the long table. Celestia looked up from her place, surrounded by a small crowd of nobles, scribes, advisors, and vellum. ‘Anything new?’

‘Merely an amendment to the description of the culprit.’ Luna said, resuming her place beside her sister. ‘’Twere a trivial point, that may but narrow the search; the greater part hath not been altered.’

Celestia’s eyebrows rose, but all she said was, ‘Very well.’ Tell me when we’re not surrounded by so many curious ears.

Luna looked over at the vellum most immediately in front of her sister—some kind of proposal, it seemed. ‘How goeth?’ Verily.

Celestia sighed, and neatly set the scroll aside with the others. ‘Poorly. From what I am to understand, the only thing the good Council recommends be said is everything. That in order to allay any fear, I must allay every fear.’

‘Fool’s errand,’ Luna sniffed, and several of the scribes nodded conspiratorially.

‘Not everything, Auntie,’ said Prince Blueblood, a few seats away. ‘Just enough to convince ponies the sun hasn’t stopped in its orbit.’

‘Economy,’ mumbled another with the rough dimensions of a boar, and walrus-moustache. ‘Can’t let the economy falter. One bad day and it’s all downhill from there.’

‘The economy will survive one day of mourning, Minister Fettekatz,’ said Fancy Pants acidly, from Luna’s other side. ‘Besides, I rather think the Princess means to know what the pony in the street thinks, rather than he that owns it.’

‘Fancy,’ Celestia admonished idly, though of course nopony present disagreed. ‘There’s no need to be uncivil.’ She turned to Blueblood. ‘I assume you have a vested interest as well?’

‘Indeed,’ said Blueblood, not missing a beat. ‘I was to host what promised to be a very profitable trade meeting with a seapony delegation from the northeast.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘I’m afraid the fish stocks in my wine cellar won’t last long enough to get them back in the water as-is.’

‘Trading the mental well-being of a nation for a nicer smell at home. At least you’re honest, nephew.’ Celestia sighed. ‘What you do in the confines of your home is no-one’s business but your own, but any servant that requests the time is to be given it. I’ll find out otherwise.’

Blueblood nodded. ‘Thank you, Auntie.’

‘Good, now go to bed.’ She looked around the crowded table. ‘The same goes for anypony else who isn’t here to help me write a speech.’

A few chairs were pushed back from the table, and several sets of hooves followed Blueblood’s out. Luna watched them go, then turned back to the table.

‘With that dispensed with, prithee, what be the real issues in play?’

Celestia gestured with a quill at several councillors in turn. ‘Domestic security. Domestic welfare. Foreign relations. Foreign military relations. Infrastructure.’ Pause. ‘Treasury?’

‘Labour cost to repair the engine and station should actually be minimal,’ said a bespectacled pony at the far end of the table, surrounded by newly-empty seats. ‘The damage to the engine was mostly cosmetic, and the platform was mortar and cobble, through and through. The carriages are a complete loss, of course—at this point it would be simpler to commission a fresh set from scratch.’

He pushed at his glasses, skimming the papers in front of him. ‘Even fully Crown-funded, it’d be a drop in the bucket at most.’

‘Not that it would stop me otherwise,’ said Celestia absently, to chuckles. Her pen was busy running over parchment.

‘Alright,’ she said at length, looking from pony to pony around the table. ‘We’ve been up all night, and it’s nearly morning. I’m exhausted, you’re all exhausted, let’s just get this done.’

To the first pony she had pointed at before: ‘Continuing risk, elevated alert status for the foreseeable future, increased Guard presence in public spaces and transit systems.’

‘Aye, ma’am, no comments.’

‘Good.’ Celestia’s quill whizzed across the paper. To the second: ‘Assurances of minimal disruption and stressing it as an isolated incident, while also emphasising that everything is being done to rectify this tragedy and bring those responsible to justice.’

‘Partners and orphans?’

‘Being managed through the Partners and Orphans Fund via the Treasury.’

‘Then I register no objections, ma’am.’

‘Good girl.’ The quill fairly sang across the parchment. To the third: ‘No party officially under suspicion, but everyone informed of the incident and alerted to keep watch on their own public spaces.’

‘Yes, ma’am. The Griffons have lodged a diplomatic complaint, citing our apparent “fearmongering”, but otherwise only the best of wishes and condolences from the border nations. No objections.’

‘The Griffons complain about everything, especially while they’re being sanctioned for border violations on the minotaurs. Again. And thank you. Next:’ she pointed to number four, a burly Pegasus mare in immaculate armour. ‘Still no word from the Changeling territory flyover?’

‘No, Miss. Due back in an hour.'

‘Fair enough. And finally, Infrastructure?’

Fancy Pants nodded. ‘Last word I received is that the locomotive will need to be completely examined and probably given a full once-over, just to be safe. Fortunately, we keep spares on the hoof in case of breakdowns or maintenance. Worst case scenario, poor weather conditions prevent us from working on the track for the next while, extends the work out by a week or two at most. Next week at the earliest, next quarter-moon at the outside.’

‘Splendid, thank you.’ Celestia scratched out a final note, rolled up the vellum, and nodded to the assembly. ‘Fillies, gentlecolts, thank you for coming out this evening on such short notice. I know this wasn’t the best day any of us have had in a good long while, but with a little effort, luck, and appreciation for our fellow mare, it looks like we’ve gotten through it in one piece. Now I know the next few weeks are going to be rough on all of us, but some probably more than others. Anything you need to ask of the Crown, or of the other ministries, do it; we’ll allocate and reallocate as-needed. Dismissed.’

Over the sound of many scraping chairs, Luna turned to Celestia. ‘And you? You are prepared to give this speech tomorrow?’

‘I could stand a few extra hours to be worked in before tomorrow morning,’ Celestia smiled, tiredly, ‘but I wouldn’t wish any more disruption on our little ponies than necessary.’

‘You seem . . . much improved from this morning, sister.’

Celestia looked over her shoulder to watch the last page scurry out of the room, and turned back to Luna. ‘We know for a fact what’s happened, now,’ she said, under her breath. ‘And with concrete facts come concrete plans. With what we know, we can prepare, investigate, and hopefully prevent this from ever happening again. I’ve done all I can; I can sleep with a clear conscience.’

‘Need we fear another attack?’

Celestia exhaled slowly. ‘I don’t know, and I’m not going to guess. We need more time.’

‘Strange words from an immortal.’

‘Don’t I know it,’ Celestia replied, looking at the moon hanging low in the near-dawn sky. ‘It’s the price we pay for choosing our people over ourselves.’

‘Was there ever a choice?’

‘Not if we wanted to be who we are.’

‘And them? Have we decided yet what they shall be?’

‘The same as ever. Free and independent, and ready to join us as equals.’ She shook her head. ‘But not like this. Not while we still have to rescue them from themselves.’

‘How far is’t set back?’

‘Shorter than you think, further than you hope?’

They chuckled, mirthlessly, there in the empty hall. The sound echoed around the empty chamber, even after they themselves had let the moment die. It was Luna that ultimately broke the silence.

‘Sister—the report we received whilst you were in Council,’ she let her eyes rest on the vellum-strewn table. ‘It—it confused us. Me. Both the words themselves, and the weight that came attach’d. I did not understand.’

Celestia looked at her, strangely. The air of practised mirth was gone, and a far more familiar look—hard and heavy, ready and reluctant—came over her face. ‘That never bodes well, Lulu. Tell me.’

And Luna told her.

And Celestia sat there in her chair, and listened. And it was only after a long moment after Luna finished, that she spoke again.

‘And . . . Twilight?’

‘In pain, as I am sure you can tell.’

‘I stopped . . . listening. After we left. I thought . . . she would want the privacy.’

‘’Twould have been most difficult to offset this from the guilt and anguish she feels already.’

‘And she didn’t tell us because . . . ?’

‘Because she had not the words to—because the fact of it alone was too much for her to bear.’ Luna straightened. ‘And that—that is the dark of it that I fail to grasp, sister. That by ascribing such an act to a child—somehow that redoubles the shame of her failure of prevent it.’

Celestia shook her head, casting her eyes to the vaulted ceiling—to the vaulted walls, where lay so many, many stained-glass memoria of ages gone by. ‘Not shame, Lulu. Not guilt. Just . . . horror.’

‘And wherefore? In our time, we have seen countless children—yearlings, barely able to crawl from beneath the maternal teat!—take up arms, or gird for war. Countless thousands we’ve watched die, and they among them; whole armies—!’

‘And those times are not our times, Luna. That was the Unification as it was—nasty, brutish, and anything but short. But it is not the Unification they remember, nor the world.’ She rose from her chair, and walked distractedly towards one of the windows—the tale of St Hestia, the Childe Arisen. Luna followed, slowly.

Celestia gazed up at the portrait, followed the contours of Hestia’s battered, triumphant little frame. ‘To us, it is but a hallmark of a terrible time, a more hateful time—to them it is a shock, an affront; the horrible realisation that their civilisation may not be quite so civil.’ She turned back to Luna, with a look that could have burned. ‘Foals have a special place to them; foals are the future, the untested mettle of tomorrow. And the idea of one not only losing its chance at that tomorrow—but giving it up of its own accord?’

Do you see it?

And Luna did see, and Luna did not. And Luna walked forward, and rested her head gently across the back of Celestia’s neck. It was an old gesture, older than anypony yet living—and it took Celestia a moment to remember how to position herself to return it.

But return it, she did; the momentary fire quelled.

‘And yet it is not,’ Luna said quietly. ‘There be yet another reason, be there not?’

Celestia squeezed her eyes shut. ‘Yes. And damn that bond to Tartarus.’

Luna smiled, but continued. ‘. . . need we fear another attack?’

‘My answer hasn’t changed.’

‘And yet you just said—’

‘They are not like us, Lulu.’ Celestia nestled further into her sister’s neck, comforting, seeking comfort. ‘Not for a very long time yet.’

Then she disentangled herself from Luna’s mane, and walked past her back to the table. As Luna watched, she gathered up everything in her magic—the pile of vellum, the mountains of parchment, the scrolls and the scraps—and carried it towards the hearth that framed one end of the long hall. Luna cocked her head, confused, but Celestia merely smiled.

‘They don’t need to hear about the cost of a train repair, or the screeching of tail-whipped Griffons,’ she said, as she dumped the pile into the fire. ‘They need to hear from us.’

Then she beckoned for Luna to join her, and together they walked back to the bed-chambers, talking and listening, and regaling each other with stories about the death of kings.

The sun was much brighter than it had been through the textured glass window in her room upstairs—the images sharper, the colours more in focus. Twilight lifted a hoof to shield her eyes from the glare, blinking rapidly as she was wheeled out the front doors, and into the waiting hooves of the small crowd she had been told would be there.

After Rainbow Dash and Applejack had left, just after dawn, the doctors had made their rounds, checked the poultices on her leg, conferred in their accustomed academic fashion. The one she had spoken to most often had assured her that she would be well enough to go home in only a few hours. They had asked her a series of questions, given her a number of instructions—she cursed herself silently for not paying more attention to those—offered thanks, and comfort, and best wishes. She had answered by instinct, of course, even shaken one of their hooves, but the only part of the conversation she had remembered, the part that had set a lead weight in her stomach, was the promise that everyone would be there to see her home.

And there they were. They came into focus in clusters, shimmering like dewdrops through the morning air, crystallising moments in her mind. The girls, there, together—relieved, tired-eyed, quiet. Applejack, halfway between heartbroken and defiant; Rainbow Dash frowning. Applebloom, standing in small, defiant solidarity beside her sister, a show of strength; Scootaloo, there because her friends were—smaller still, and uncomfortable.

Beside them, her parents, shaking like leaves in the gentle breeze, eyes wide and shining. Either looked ready to dash forward, deck the attendant, and spirit their daughter away, but whether out of a sense of propriety, or concern for their daughter’s safety, they stayed their hooves. Her father’s lip was trembling in a way she had never seen before, but the fire in her mother’s eyes . . .

Shining Armour was not with them, though that was to be expected; the Crystal Empire was about as far as it was possible to get from the Heartland, and a mere two days was nowhere near enough time to make the trip by tr—

By rail—

. . . he never had been very good at teleportation. Dimly, she recalled someone saying he and Cadence both would be down as soon as they could get away, but until they did . . . she could push away the looks she imagined for them as they stood beside her parents.

And there, to the right, just enough apart from the others to be noticeable, three others, and it was from them that the emptiness was most palpable. Magnum, impeccably-dressed and doffing his hat; Cookie, her pink coat pinker still around the eyes; Sweetie Belle, fragile, doll-like, glassy-eyed. She could not stand to look at them for more than a moment, before she forced her eyes back to the others.

They stood there, a loose half-circle arrayed before her like silent jurors—or perhaps the customary twenty-one of the cannonade, for they all stiffened to something like attention as the attendant pushing the wheelchair drew close. They said nothing—to her, to each other—just stared, in something like rapture. Perhaps they were taking her in as she had done them, but why would it take them so long? Perhaps they were overjoyed to see her, but then why would they stand there so quietly? Perhaps they were waiting for her to be ready, but when would she ever be?

She could not bear to look any of them in the eye, not this close, and settled for looking at the blue sky between two shoulders, instead.

‘Someone has to sign me out,’ she said, quietly, and the spell was broken. The half-circle closed in an ecstatic, weeping crush, pushing in tight around the wheelchair, sobbing and sighing, hugging and holding. Those who had not seen Twilight the day before (or, ‘enough’ that day, in some cases) held tighter, and wept louder, but Sweetie Belle was by far the worst. Unbidden, she climbed up on Twilight’s lap, and gave her a wordless, wide-eyed hug that seemed to stretch into eternity. Twilight’s fur was damp and matted, when Sweetie’s parents finally pulled her away.

There was a slight delay as the necessary paperwork was filled out—waivers, releases, the obligatory follow-up appointment at Ponyville General, threats of further violence from Twilight Velvet if things didn’t move the buck along—and then they were away. Night Light pushed the wheelchair, and the others formed a loose sort of phalanx around them, with Magnum and Cookie at its head. Every so often, she would catch them glancing over their shoulders at her, but they would only smile, quietly, and resume the slow march.

The streets were quiet as the little party made its way to the Wards airship terminal. Twilight later learned that the families of the deceased had been offered a full honour escort back to Ponyville—regalia, military processional, casket borne on willow-wood litters, as was tradition—but the Sparkles and the Belles, at least, had declined.

The casket was waiting for them at the entrance to the terminal, flanked by four stern-looking Unicorn Guardsmares. They saluted in unison as the party approached, and one stepped forward to exchange a few words with Magnum and Cookie. They nodded, quietly, and stepped closer to the elegant ebony casket as the Guardsmare turned to the others. Several times throughout the ensuing conversation Twilight saw Cookie’s hoof reach for the lid . . . then slip back to the ground again.

The Guardsmare informed them that, by direct order of the Crown, a small detachment had been assigned to escort the Elements and their families through the terminal, to an airship provided by the Crown, and back to their homes in Ponyville. They weren’t expecting trouble, she clarified, but with all the uncertainty, it was really just the better part of valour. No-one really heard her; Cookie had just buried her face in her husband’s shoulder.

In short order, the Guardsmares had the coffin floating at shoulder-height—suspended carefully in the overlapping magics of four well-trained horns—and, after a final check make sure that their charges were still in tow, set off at a slow march in to the grand foyer. The Belles followed, then the Sparkles, with the Elements bringing up the rear.

Hundreds upon hundreds of ponies lined the walkway to their airship. Pegasi, Earth Ponies, Unicorns, Mules, Zebras—even a Crystal Pony or two, glowing dimly in the mid-morning light—every breed, every walk of life was represented. And as they passed down the narrow aisle—the casket and the survivor, the families and the Elements—every knee bent, and every head bowed.

They had no trouble reaching the airship, or boarding it. Nopony blocked their path; nopony threw a single flower. But as Fluttershy hopped over the airship’s railing onto the deck, and the boarding ramp was raised, there came a single, unmistakeable sound, and Twilight had to crane her neck to look.

Every pair of forehooves stamped the worked stone of the terminal—a clattering, rumbling sound; primal, ancient. It was the sound of time passing; of hooves on the ancestral plain, on the soft grasses of Elysium tomorrow. It was a sound of mourning and of hope, of joy and of sorrow. And as the airship lifted off, pushing away from the dock and into the blue of the sky, Twilight realised belatedly that it was the sound of something else, too—it was the sound of solidarity.

The airship swayed gently in the breeze, the four Guards guiding her expertly around eddies and cloud-banks as they made their way down the mountain. Twilight had her father lock the wheels of her chair near the tiller, where she could watch the countryside as it came up to meet them. It was everything and nothing like her first trip down to Ponyville with Spike—how long ago, now? Her heart skipped a beat on hearing Cookie tell Fluttershy what wonderful things her daughter had always said about airships—and how, even then, this was still only her second time. She could not bring herself to turn her chair when Cookie excused herself below decks.

Spike was waiting for them with a couple of hired coaches when the airship touched down on Cherry Berry’s makeshift landing pad in the cornfield just west of town, and climbed up unceremoniously into Twilight’s lap as soon as she was wheeled down the gangplank. She had to remind herself, as she held him close to her chest, that even he—adult as he was, as much as he himself had been through—was still at heart a child. A little, little child in some ways; he fell asleep in the carriage, cradled in her hooves.

She watched through the carriage window as the casket was loaded into the back of the other carriage; waved, a little, as the Belles themselves climbed in behind it. Sweetie Belle tugged on her mother’s black dress, pointed to Twilight, and all three heads reappeared long enough to return the gesture. Then the doors closed, the runner-stallions heaved, and the carriage, the Belles—Rarity—trundled off down the northward road, towards the mortician’s, the cemetery, and the funeral that Magnum had told them was due to take place in three days’ time. Her heart had skipped another beat hearing her parents exchange addresses and means of communication with Magnum—hearing the choke in the stallion’s quiet voice as he asked them to be there with their daughter for the ceremony.

Her parents, Applejack, and Pinkie Pie clambered into the carriage. Rainbow Dash had stuck her head in long enough to tell them she was going to take Fluttershy home; the talk with Cookie aboard the airship had apparently been her limit. She hugged Twilight fiercely about the neck, and told her in no uncertain terms that she wasn’t allowed to wall herself up in the library—that they’d be coming out to visit as early as tomorrow, and she’d better have something more than month-old scones in the pantry, sweet Celestia.

And then she, too, was gone, weaving unevenly through the skies above Ponyville, one foreleg wrapped tightly around the barrel of her disconsolate friend.

She watched them go as the carriage lurched into motion; watched as the Guardsmares watched them go, then filed silently back aboard their airship. She watched as the thatched roofs of Ponyville thickened like a protective forest around her again; watched as shutters opened, and doors creaked, and more and more ponies filed silently out to watch them pass.

A crowd had gathered in the town square, armed with handkerchiefs and what looked like little hoof-painted signs. No-one was waving them, so she couldn’t read what they were meant to say. But every pair of eyes followed their carriage, and every pair of eyes was wet with tears.

Then the carriages ground to a halt outside Golden Oaks library, and their journey was over.

Her parents bustled inside at once, tidying and exclaiming and admonishing each other to tune the radio properly, so they could listen to her Highness’ address that evening, and thus it fell to Applejack and Pinkie Pie to help Twilight down from the carriage and into her chair again. Once she was settled comfortably, and confirmed for them that, yes, they’d worked out how to unlock the wheels properly, they descended into silence.

Applejack seemed to be avoiding Pinkie as much as possible, and Pinkie was making no effort to engage her, in turn, but after a moment’s hesitation, bounded forward and gave Twilight an incredible squeeze. The Cakes, she said, had promised her a table by the hearth, for as long as she was wheelchair-bound, and as many tea-cakes as she could eat. She echoed Rainbow Dash, promising to come by every day until Twilight told her to stop. Then she faltered, and stepped back, half-smiled again, and trotted away.

And at last, it was just her and Applejack, standing in front of the door to the library—she, with Spike asleep in her hooves; Applejack working the crick out of her neck with a free hoof. They regarded each other for a long moment, letting the echoes of everything they’d said the day before pass between them. Then:

‘Where do we go from here?’ Twilight asked, simply.

Applejack gestured at the building behind them. ‘Home?’

‘Are we?’

‘Are we what?’

‘Home.’

Applejack just looked at her.

‘I mean . . . the train, the foal, Rarity—is this how it’s going to be from now on?’

‘Ah don’t know.’

‘And . . . next time, if there is a next time—?’

‘Ah don’t know, Twilight.’

Silence, again. They stared at the dusty ground between them.

‘It was so . . . quiet, on the way back into town,’ Twilight said, after a moment. ‘They all just came out and . . . watched.’ She bit her lip. ‘Was it just . . . me? Or did I do something wrong? Was it because it was me, not Rarity? What can I tell them? How—’

‘Twi.’

‘But—‘

‘Twilight.’ A voice old and hoarse as orchards. ‘It’s not because they lost her. It’s because they have you back. You are home.’

She looked over her shoulder—eastward. ‘Home. An’ home is just about the only place I intend to be for the next while. Take . . . take care’a yourself, alright? Like Pinkie and Rainbow said, we’ll . . . we’ll be around.’

A thousand more anxious questions burned in Twilight’s mind, but whether or not Applejack was the one to answer them, she knew, their time was up. So she rolled herself up to the open door of the library, turned, and waved, instead. She waved to Applejack as she turned east, towards Sweet Apple Acres. She waved to the pink speck in the distance, pronking distractedly towards Sugarcube Corner. She waved the northbound carriage she could not see, and the airship well on its way back to Canterlot. She even waved to a couple of ponies trudging back from the crowd she had seen gathered in the square.

And in every case, whether they knew her by sight or not; whether they understood why she was waving or not, somepony waved back. It heartened her a little to know that she could raise her hoof at any time, in any place, and that somepony would return the gesture, sight unseen. It made the last twenty-four hours of doubt seem just that little bit more distant—that little bit less hopeless.

It was almost enough to make her feel at home.

So thinking, she turned around, going gingerly so as not to wake the sleeping dragon in her lap, and trundled through the door, and into the warm comfort of her home.

The doors to the balcony lit at her horn’s touch, and she stepped out into the glimmering sunset. The last embers of her sun were flickering on the River Steed, wending its way through Ponyville. The orange sky, smeared with streaks of pink and crimson, shimmered hotly above. A burning day, indeed.

She swept her gaze over the crowd assembled in the courtyard below. When last she’d spoken here it had been to announce her sister’s return, the reinstatement of the diarchy. Such cheers and elation! Such wild cries and open hearts!

And now? Silence. Expectant eyes, red-rimmed. Gaunt faces taut with rigour, slack with exhaustion. Wincing at wounds, leaning on shoulders; nursing broken bones, and broken hearts. Smaller. Lessened in their loss.

She could bear to see it for no more than an instant, and so she spoke instead.

‘Mares and stallions.’ Her voice rang, clarion, clear out into the palace courtyard, and beyond. A great shiver ran through the crowd, like wind through dry grasses, and a few downcast faces were lifted to find their mirror in hers. ‘Fathers, daughters; mothers, sons; brothers, sisters; partners, lovers, children, parents—citizens of Equestria. Friends.’

She paused, letting the word carry. Then: ‘I want to thank all of you who could be with us today for coming out; and all of you who might not be able to—who are listening in from home, or from afar; who hear my words by way of a friend, or read the transcripts in the newspaper tomorrow. If you can hear my words—thank you.’

Some light shuffling; some murmurs of assent from below. She caught a glimpse of a filly—small and golden-maned, chest heaving, her face streaked with tears. She faltered, but only for a moment.

‘. . . I want you all to know, how hard it is for me to put into words exactly what I want to convey in the wake of what occurred yesterday. Not because I was shocked into silence, or because tens of millennia of rule have left me a stranger to the horror of death, but because I needed to know that what I told you would heal, without scarring; last, without belabouring; to move forward, without forgetting.

‘Many thousands of years ago, Luna and I swore an oath: that our first duty to you—our people; our goodhearted little ponies—would not be to command you, to yoke you, to tie you down; it was to watch over you, to guide you, to teach, where able; to keep you safe. And that even in those moments where we could not—where we were surprised, or overtaken, or somehow rendered unable—that we would be there to lift you up where you had fallen; to bring you comfort in the times of pain.

‘And here we are, in a time of incredible pain. Half a year after the Green Wedding—after the Miracle of Love saw not a single Equestrian life lost to the Changeling swarm, here we are in mourning.’

More nodding, more tears; murmurs and whispers and even a few softly-nickered invocations of her name. But whatever they said, whatever they thought, all eyes were on her now—focussed, stronger. She pressed on.

‘You know all the facts already, I’m sure: that, yesterday morning, an explosive device was detonated aboard the inbound train on the Ponyville-Canterlot line; that twenty-one ponies were killed in the explosion and the ensuing fire; that the Crown and the Guard are currently exhausting all possible avenues of inquiry to determine a motive, bring any responsible parties to justice, and taking steps to ensure that nothing like this can ever happen again.

‘I will not insult you by telling you what a tragedy this is—you know. I will not waste your time telling you the sort of vile, depraved, despicable creature it requires, to perform an act so heinous—you know. I will not slander the memories of those who died yesterday with empty words about my thoughts and prayers; if I have performed even a tenth of my duties as a leader of my people, then you would know.

‘And you know that I strive, every day of my life, not to teach to the ponies I am sworn to watch over the many things they already know.

‘You know that I have no desire to move you to tears, nor to incite you to anger. You know that I have no desire to reiterate the lessons of the past, nor make dire warnings for the future. All I desire is to thank you for listening, and ask that you listen for just a little bit more.’

Not a whisper now—not a snatch of murmured prayer. Their eyes were on her, their ears were pricked; they listened. And so she told them.

‘You are my ponies. You are my people. You are resilient, and brave, and unbroken. But more than that—you listen. You could have chosen not to, to shut me out—but you didn’t. You could have succumbed to anger, to apathy, to despair—but when I look out at you, my little ponies, I don’t see a mob out for blood; I don’t see the glazed eyes of disaffectation. I see ponies who came together in their hurt, and did what they could to help, to heal—to understand why.

‘You cared enough to listen. You cared enough to support your fellow mare last night, and today. And by that very action, you demonstrated that you care enough to be part of the solution. Because that is what we do, my subjects—my children, my people. We grow strong, we grow together, and we never let something like this tear us apart.’

Every word, every syllable was stronger, clearer—exultant. She could feel her heart beat faster in her chest, could feel the energy in her words radiate through the crowd, even as she kept her voice level, even as it carried out across all of them, she felt it—she believed.

‘That is my promise to you, my little ponies—that no matter what happens, that no matter whether we are there for you or not, as long as you stay strong, and refuse to allow anything—anyone!—to rob you of your oneness, your compassion, then nothing—not ever!—can keep you from making this the best world it can be.’

She turned to Luna, brimming with the energy of the moment.

‘Luna, Princess of the Night and Maintainer of the Vigil—and my dear, dear sister . . . what say you?’

Luna, violet-black and shining in the sunset, gave her a rare smile. ‘Of course, sister.’ She raised her voice as well, strong and clear, carrying out across the courtyard to match her own. ‘We have always believed in the ponies of Equestria, and the greatness we have wrought together as a people. The Great Work of Equestria is eternal, and aught we can only accomplish if we walk the path as one. We would be proud,’ she said, stepping forward, ‘to walk that path with any of you.’

And though she spoke to the crowd, her eyes never left Celestia’s.

And even if they be not ready today; tomorrow; the next day—they shall be. And I shall be proud to guide them there beside you.

And amongst the ponies in the courtyard below, there came a sound—a low rumble at first, almost a hum, that rose in pitch and volume until it exploded into a storm of cheers and applause and wild, ecstatic laughter. Hope! If the Princess could look past the fear and the danger and the suffering, could stand unbowed, surely there was hope! Hope for the future, hope in the bleakness, hope that the storm could be weathered, withstood, survived!

Oh happiness! Oh unadulterated joy!

And Celestia smiled—not the beatific semblance she had developed over centuries of rule, but a genuine, trembling little thing. There were tears in her eyes.

She smiled out at her subjects, and—for the first time since she had felt the sharp stab of nearly two-dozen deaths of her precious children—felt that things would be alright. Whatever her thoughts, whatever choices she worried she would have to make, whatever proof she felt she needed that it hadn’t all been in vain, they believed, and the millennia told her that would be enough.

She poised herself to say another few words in closing—and the second bomb went off in the square below.

Author's Note

In summary:

This is not a story about politics, or religion, or conspiracies, or aspersions. It is not about hatred, or race, or whatever it's been decided the acceptable targets are today. This is a story about anger, and regret, and the things we lose our grasp on in the dark.